The beasts circled around her in the forest. Snarls rumbled from their throats, low and guttural, vibrating through the air.
Their claws scraped against stone and bark, the sound sharp and grating, like jagged steel being dragged over bone. Each scrape sent a chill up Elysia's spine.
Drool hung in long strands from their bared teeth, glistening faintly under the dim forest light that filtered through the canopy above.
Their eyes glowed faintly with something unnatural—like the fading embers of a dying fire. They were patient, too patient, moving one step at a time. Every step was a reminder of what she already knew.
She became their prey.
Her grip tightened on the Oathblade. The runes etched across its surface pulsed faintly, almost as if the sword itself was breathing with her, sharing her tension.
Her chest rose and fell, quick and uneven. She could hear her own heartbeat, pounding against her ribs like a drum calling her to war.
