The wind gives out at last. On the ridge, the desert goes still, and the buried ruins rest far below like broken teeth in the sand.
Grimlock kneels beside the ridge crest, the map spread near his hand as he checks his dagger edge and coils the whip at his side. The dire wolf lies close at his boots, ears twitching, calm but ready.
The Old Hermit
I have not told many of this, but I once came this far with another guide. We turned back with empty water and fewer hopes.
The Old Hermit
The ridge remembers better than men do. It keeps every mistake.
He sits with his gaze on the ruins, hands folded over his knees, the lines in his face easing for a moment. The Lead Merchant lingers a few paces off, finally quiet, watching the horizon with relieved caution.
The Lead Merchant
If the Glass Sanctuary is real, then I want to see it with my own eyes. No more stories. No more guesses.
The wolf shifts, pressing closer to Grimlock’s leg as if the silence itself is something to guard against. The little cluster on the ridge feels less like a camp and more like a held breath.
The Old Hermit
Then rest your hands while you can. The next path may ask for all of them.