The forest swallowed sound.
Leaves hung damp and heavy, dripping with last night’s mist. Every step sank into a floor of moss and loam, muffled and soft, so that the survivors felt themselves moving like ghosts. Branches twisted high above, gnarled and knotted into shapes that suggested claws, or faces, or cages. The air was thick with the smell of rot and old rain.
Kaelen led them east. He kept his eyes fixed forward, though every instinct screamed to glance back, to measure the distance between them and the hunters surely shadowing their trail. His boots made no noise, but still he winced at each c***k of twig from the company behind him.
Roran limped along at his side, arm bound tight across his chest. He was pale, but there was fire yet in his eyes. “You ever been through the Ashwoo
