Aldor could barely lift Eldacir let alone fight with it. His legs were empty. Dale was in the same condition. The mist sweeping across greenery was heavy. It folded around them like an assault, something Aldor hoped he would never have to get used to.
A sickly sheen beaded on Dale's forehead. The quiver stocked with arrows bounced on their own as Dale leapt like a deer through the wilderness. He was a huntsman after all—Aldor knew Dale's skills with a bow were lethal. Maybe they wouldn't have to fight hand to hand. Dale was going to hate him for this.
The trees shook on either side of them. There were a few scary moments when Aldor thought they would lose their footing, but the faster they ran, the harder it was for them to fall. He thought it wasn't possible for the jungle to intensify.
