CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Withered Woods live up to their name, ancient trees twisted into strange shapes by centuries of storms. I follow Ford closely, our steps silent on the forest floor thick with fallen leaves and moss. I can feel his tension—like a storm cloud about to burst.
"Stay close," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. It's unnecessary; my instincts scream for me to be near him, despite the prophecy that hangs over us like a guillotine.
The woods seem to open up as we approach an area where the trees grow sparser. We're looking for Bethesda, the mage who supposedly has answers to Ford's curse. I can't help but glance at Ford from the corner of my eye, his profile set in grim determination. The muscles in his jaw clench with every step.
We find Bethesda's dwelling wit
