The wind howled through the trees like a chorus of lost souls as we moved deeper into the forest. The air was thick with the scent of rain and burning wood—remnants of the portal’s destruction. My legs were sore, lungs tight from exhaustion, but I couldn’t afford to stop. Not when Silas could be watching. Not when every shadow felt like his hand.
Alistair walked beside me, his arm draped over my shoulder for support. He was healing—but slowly. The battle had drained him, and his once-glowing strength was now a flickering ember. Selene led the way, her senses heightened, her hands ever near the blades at her hips. None of us spoke. Silence was safer.
We finally reached a clearing, hidden beneath a canopy of twisted oaks. A ruined stone altar stood at the center, covered in moss and time.
