Where before it had taken a mile of walking to move two miles closer to the abyss, now it took labyrinthine maneuvering just to escape a few hundred feet. Max led them in winding arcs, zigzagging through terrain that shifted underfoot.
Left… right… double back… veer sideways…
There were no straight lines here—only distorted space, where distance and direction obeyed a logic all their own.
But Max had one advantage.
His soul marks.
Even in this warped realm, they held.
As he retraced his steps, he found faint remnants of his earlier soul runes glowing dimly in the earth. They hadn't been completely corrupted by the infernal energy. They endured.
And with each glowing trace they recovered, the tension in Max's chest eased—just a little.
They hadn't beaten the Mourning Depths.
But they hadn't lost to it either.
Not yet.
