The Omegas Cry
Xenon’s gaze lingered on me for a moment longer before he turned away, signaling the end of our break.
As we moved further, the scent of salt and damp earth filling my lungs. The island we arrived in was eerily quiet, save for the distant crash of waves against the shore.
“This place feels wrong,” I muttered, my eyes scanning the dense vegetation.
“It’s not about how it feels,” Xenon said, his tone matter-of-fact. “It’s about what it tells us.”
As we ventured deeper into the island, Xenon suddenly stopped, crouching low to the ground. He picked up a small, charred piece of wood and held it up for us to see.
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