Natiya led us deeper into the valley, unafraid. One of them slid a cool fingertip along my jaw, pressing a warning to my lips, Shhh, Kazi, don’t say a word. I felt the ghosts hovering, watching, wondering. It had been six years since the Great Battle, but the scars were still visible-overturned wagons eaten up with grass, scattered bones dug from graves by hungry beasts, the skeletal ribs of giant brezalots reaching skyward, birds perched on their elegant bleached cages. My horse’s ears pricked, watchful, a rumble deep from his throat. We rode through Sentinel Valley, ruins of the Ancients looking down upon us. They call to you in unexpected moments, their hands lacing with yours and pulling you down paths that lead nowhere. The words lingered in the air, each one a shimmering spirit, cold whispers of caution, but I wasn’t afraid.
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