Rissa’s POV

The rain starts just before dawn.

Cold. Steady. Relentless.

It slides through the broken canopy above us and drips from the stone walls of the ruined chapel where we stopped for shelter hours ago. The place smells like wet earth, ash, and old dust. Half the roof is gone. The wooden pews are rotting. Symbols carved into the floor glow faintly beneath layers of dirt, ancient enough that even I cannot recognize them fully.

Mark stands near the shattered entrance, watching the ...