71.1

When we reached the top of the slope, the road bisected a cattle field bordered by a small grove of densely packed trees that stretched fifty feet high. As Boris drove toward them, wards hit my skin like hailstones, progressing to tiny shards of ice that penetrated my skin. Clenching my teeth, I glanced across the back set at Griff, who shuddered.

“Dain must have strengthened the wards,” he said.

“Hopefully not to detect you,” I muttered.

Griff rubbed his chin. “It’s doubtful, considering how long I’ve been dead. But he’s a paranoid bastard who makes lots of enemies. This is probably his way of warning people he’s well protected.”

At the other side of the walls, our surroundings changed from vibrant green to sepia. Even the cows grazing on either side of the road seemed sickly. Something about the wards had created a cast of brown across the sky, turning the meadow dreary.

I glanced at Griff, my lips parting. “Is this normal?”

“It gets worse.” He shifted on his seat and grimaced.

The