Chapter 58. The Wyrm Coast Doesn’t Forget

The Wyrm Coast lived up to its name.

The road west had dissolved two miles before she reached the outer bluffs, replaced by cracked shale and patches of black sand that sucked at her boots with every step. Wind shrieked off the cliffs in chaotic bursts, carrying with it the scent of salt and stone—and something else.

Not rot. Not decay.

Something clean. Too clean.

Like a place where death had already happened, and now nature held its breath.

Adria pulled her cloak tighter and pressed forward. Her legs ached from three days on foot—no horse, no companion, only the distant curve of the sea to orient her. Solara had long since vanished behind the hills. The land here dipped in jagged valleys and sharp ridgelines, like a scar that never quite healed.

By noon, she reached the first of the ruined watchposts.

It was more of a cairn than a building—four walls reduced to a broken arch and a single glyph carved into the foundation stone. A circle, spl