The Mirewraith surged again from the mist, its glowing green eyes fixing on the group. Claws slashed through the fog, and small tendrils of muck lashed out, trying to trip anyone who faltered. The bog seemed alive, bending and twisting under its will.
Remiel felt the familiar, subtle presence of Emriel and Remael. Their voices weren’t loud—they were quiet, precise, threading into his mind.
“It adapts too quickly to direct attacks,” Emriel said. “You’ll need to force it into a position where its form solidifies.”
“The bog helps it hide and escape,” added Remael. “Make it retreat toward the narrower pools near the center. It can’t dodge effectively there if you work together.”
Remiel nodded subtly, letting their advice guide him. He turned to the group, his voice cutting through the tens
