The ash fell gently over Black Claw's accursed fields, deep and still, muffling even the wind. Ezra stood on the borders of what was once sacred ground where no longer sprouted trees, and black rivers ran with the debris of shattered oaths. Above was no longer sky but a knot of bruised cloud that rolled sullenly as if unwilling to witness.

His boots sank into the charred ground, and the air hung thick with dry blood and ancient magic. Each step a burden. Each breath a flavor of sadness.

He'd ...