MEND ME IF YOU CAN.
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The Wyrm’s Pass was not a place for the living.
It rose from the world like a scar—jagged, black cliffs slick with rain and legend. The old stories said dragons had carved their deaths into the stone, their last breaths freezing the air for eternity. The wind that howled there was older than language.
Soren climbed for three endless days, his cloak torn, his body numb from the cold. On the third night, the storm came.
It was not a storm of this world. Lightning did not strike—it screamed. The wind clawed at him, carrying voices that whispered from every direction. Some spoke his name; others, Travian’s. He couldn’t tell which hurt more.
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