The rain had slowed to a drizzle as Rohzivaan, Ahcehera, and Richmond moved swiftly through the desolate forest.
Their breaths were heavy, and their footsteps barely made a sound on the damp earth. The crimson glow that had painted the sky was gone, replaced by a thick, oppressive darkness.
Every crack of a branch or whisper of wind made them flinch. They knew they couldn't stay here.
Not when Zephyrion's influence still loomed over Agartha like a shadowy predator waiting to strike again.
They reached an abandoned outpost near the old riverbed, a place once used by Agartha's reconnaissance teams.
The structure was half-collapsed, vines crawling up its rusted walls, but it still had four walls and a roof. The three of them slipped inside, barring the entrance with a dented metal beam.
Ahcehera sat against the wall, her sword resting beside her. Her injured arm throbbed, and dried blood crusted along the wound.
