The forest did not welcome him.
Kaelen crashed through the undergrowth like a hunted stag, every branch and thorn clawing at his skin. His breath tore ragged from his throat, his boots slick with mud and blood. Behind him, faint but persistent, came the horns, sharp notes drifting through the mist, drawing closer, herding the scattered mercenaries like wolves circling broken prey.
He forced himself onward until his legs burned, then stumbled behind a moss-slick boulder, chest heaving. The wound on his shoulder throbbed from the rider’s strike, hot and wet against the torn fabric of his shirt. He pressed a hand to it, then pulled back, his palm sticky red.
The rout replayed in flashes: shields shattering, Roran’s voice roaring through the din, Garen’s last stand before the blade cut him
