The shadows of the Deadroot Forest thickened the deeper they went. Gnarled trees now groaned overhead, their twisted branches like skeletal hands, clawing at the fog-choked sky. But Eirana had no time to dwell on the eerie beauty. She was sprinting at full tilt—her silver blade slick with blood from both Elven warriors and the beasts they'd encountered along the way.
Beside her, the Voidcloak glided effortlessly, its featureless face cloaked in an ever-shifting swirl of dark mist, its steps completely soundless despite the chaos.
"Faster," she muttered, teeth clenched, eyes darting. "We have to lose them before they call reinforcements."
Behind them, faint horns blew through the forest—warning calls. The Elven patrols were regrouping.
A massive fangback lizard lunged from the thickets ahead—its eyes burning with rage, mouth foaming with rot.
