The air in the humid, vine-choked outskirts of the Blackspine Mountains hung heavy with the copper tang of stagnant water and the sharp, medicinal stench of rotting vegetation. Issac Monroe moved with the silent, predatory grace of a phantom, his boots barely disturbing the slick moss coating the jagged rocks. He was deep within a territory where the laws of the United Dominion held little sway, a place governed by the archaic and cruel whispers of the Southern Frontier.
As Issac advanced, the very earth seemed to rebel against his intrusion. From the thick, serrated blades of the sawgrass and the dark, loamy soil, a nightmare menagerie of Hex Acolyte creations began to stir. Dozens of emerald-scaled pit vipers coiled and struck with lightning speed, their fangs dripping with necrotic ven
