The forest loomed like a fevered dream, its blood-weeping trees stretching gnarled limbs toward the crimson sky, their bark slick with sap that shimmered like molten rubies in the dim light.
Roots twisted like serpents beneath the rotting underbrush, rising without warning to entangle ankles or crush bone, each step a gamble through Vyrneth's deepest region—the Bloodweave.
The air was hot, humid, thick with the scent of rust and decay, the crimson mist curling in ghostly tendrils around their legs, thickening with every step deeper into its heart.
Whispers slithered through the haze, soft and venomous, curling around Leon's ears like vines.
You'll fail them.
You always do.
Boren died because of you.
Many died because of you.
They will keep dying.
Dying until you die.
Leon clenched his reforged dagger tighter, his linen shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest, the weight of his pack heavy on his shoulders.
