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They sat exactly six inches apart, separated by the shimmer in the air—the .

Kael reached into his pack and pulled out a sealed glass vial of Delta river water. He placed it on the line. "Don't open it. Just hold the glass. It’s warm. It tastes like the sun hitting the mud." They sat exactly six inches apart, separated by

In a world bound by the , existence is defined by a genetic tether to the soil. People are born, live, and die within the strict borders of their regional biomes. Crossing a boundary isn't a crime; it’s a physical impossibility. Your molecules simply begin to unravel the moment you step onto "foreign" dirt. "Don't open it

Kael was a , built for the humid, oxygen-rich marshes of the River Delta. He spent his days harvesting glowing peat, staring at the jagged violet peaks of the Aether Highlands just five miles away. To him, they were as distant as the moon. It tastes like the sun hitting the mud