By sunrise, the rain had turned into a steady drizzle, soaking the forest in mist and mud. Birds chirped like they were mocking me, squirrels darted past as if flexing their stamina, and there I was—half-dead, wheezing like a broken accordion in a pair of joggers older than my dignity.
Gregor, of course, looked like he had been carved from steel and smugness. His long strides cut through the mud like he was walking on clouds, not drenched dirt. The man didn’t even sweat. Not a single drop. His shirt clung to him from the rain, but his breathing? Smooth. Calm. Like he was meditating instead of sprinting through a freaking thunderstorm.
Meanwhile, I was dying. Absolutely, positively dying.
“Why—” I gasped, tripping over a root and catching myself on a tree—“are we running—in the rain—like
