FIVE
TANITH
The Dead Roads live up to their name.
We’ve been walking for six hours through terrain that shouldn’t exist—collapsed trade routes threaded between dead zones, paths carved by travelers who probably didn’t survive the journey. The ground shifts beneath my boots with every step, stable enough to hold weight but unstable enough that I never stop testing.
Arax moves ahead of me, picking the route with an assurance that borders on preternatural. He doesn’t consult maps. Doesn’t pause to assess. He simply knows where the ground will hold and where it won’t, navigating the Reach’s treacherous geography like he’s reading words written in a language I can’t see.
I hate that I’m starting to rely on that.
My ankle has improved overnight—enough rest and the swelling subsided to a dull ache rather than screaming protest. I don’t limp anymore, but I’m slower than I need to be, and we both know it. He hasn’t mentioned it. He simply adjusted his pace to match mine and kept moving.
I hate that too.
The ash lies thick across the road, undisturbed by wind or weather. Nothing moves here except us. The silence presses against my ears like cotton, broken only by the crunch of our footsteps and the occasional distant groan of reality adjusting itself somewhere beyond sight.
I try a simple light spell.
The magic gathers in my palm, familiar as breathing—and collapses. The framework unravels before it can complete, threads of power scattering into the corrupted air like smoke. I’m left holding nothing, the metallic taste of failed magic coating my tongue.
“Fuck.”
The Reach swallows it mid-formation.
“My domain resists the standard corruption.” He doesn’t look up from the road. “What the Choir constructs deliberately is another matter.”
I shake my fingers, dispelling the residual tingle of collapsed power. My Termination works fine. Everything else is gone.
No wonder the ash calms around him.
I pull my journal from my pack without breaking stride—a leather-bound thing I’ve carried across three kingdoms and countless dead zones. The pages are filled with maps, notes, measurements. My own personal record of how the world is falling apart.
I flip to a blank page and begin documenting.
The road we’re traveling runs roughly north-south, following what used to be a major trade route between two cities that no longer exist. I mark our position based on landmarks Arax identified earlier—a collapsed bridge here, a particularly distinctive rock formation there. Then I note the magic conditions.
Complete failure zone. Conventional spellwork collapses within seconds. Termination functions normally. Ash density: heavy. Visibility: limited. Substrate stability: moderate.
I’ve been keeping these records for three years, mapping the spread of corruption across territories that used to be safe. The patterns I’m seeing now make my stomach clench.
“How long since you’ve traveled this route?”
Arax doesn’t turn. “Four months.”
“These dead zones weren’t here four months ago.”
“No.”
I mark the boundary we crossed two hours back—the point where my light spell started failing instead of misfiring. Four months ago, this would have been a functional territory. Corrupted, yes, but workable. Now it’s a complete failure zone, magic-dead in ways that shouldn’t be possible this far from the Reach’s center.
The expansion is accelerating.
The math is simple. Terrifying, but simple.
At this rate, the Reach will swallow another hundred miles of territory within the year. Cities. Villages. Trade routes. Ley-line nexuses that power defensive wards across the realm. All of it, gone. Erased.
“The Choir’s rituals are accelerating this.” I don’t phrase it as a question.
