The green faded slowly. It didn't stop abruptly. It thinned. The grass became sparse. The trees became stunted. The air lost its scent of pine and loam. It smelled of rust. Of dry dust. Of something dead that refused to decompose.
Solan stopped on a ridge. Below him lay the Old City.
It was a skeleton. Steel beams jutted into the sky like broken ribs. Concrete slabs lay shattered across the land like fallen continents. There were no roofs. No glass. The wind whistled through the hollow shells of buildings. It sounded like crying.
It hurts, the Earth said. The voice was sharp. Jagged. Like glass in the soil. The Stone... it does not breathe. It poisons the roots.
Solan gripped the staff. The four woods vibrated. The Ash wanted to filter. The Birch wanted to cool. The Oak wanted to bind.
