The ground was gray-black hard earth, dried and cracked.
The soil had not been born that way. It had been packed hard by countless feet, soaked hard by blood, and compressed hard by the undead who had rolled, crawled, struggled, died, and failed to die upon it for innumerable years.
It was as hard as stone. No, harder than stone.
Moss could still grow on stone. Nothing could grow on this soil.
It was hard beneath your feet—neither sinking nor soft, with no give at all.
The instant the soles of your feet touched the ground, you could not feel the warmth the earth ought to have. There was only dead silence, stillness, and a cold that rejected all life.
This cold was not winter cold. Winter cold was alive; it moved, changed, and could be driven away by the sun.
The cold here was dead, like a chill seeping from a corpse. It traveled from the soles of your feet to the crown of your head, into the gaps between your bones, into your soul.
The ground was covered in cracks, some as narrow as fingers, others wide enough to fit a fist.
The cracks were bottomless, like mouths that could never close, screaming soundlessly.
Their edges were sharp, as if carved by a blade. Step on one, and it would slice open the sole of your foot.
But the soles would not bleed, because blood would not clot; nor would the wounds heal, because self-healing did not exist.
So every step you took left a fresh wound along the cracks, and the next time you stepped on one, those fresh wounds would be torn even deeper.
Fine gray mist and cell fragments drifted from within the cracks, while sticky liquid seeped out. It was not water. It was