Mist slithered between the roots like pale snakes, coiling around the splintered trunks that ringed the tiny clearing. Draven exhaled once, a thin thread of steam curling past his lips, and stepped away from the mimic's cooling corpse. His sword remained canted at a lazy angle, tip down, but there was nothing lax about his posture. Every muscle sat poised beneath the long coat, ready to snap forward if the forest decided to test him again.
The Grove whispered. Leaves rattled without wind, trading warnings from crown to crown. A ripple traveled through the soil and up the bark, as though the whole wood had just taken a sharp breath.
"Deeper," he muttered. The syllables vanished almost before they escaped.
Behind him, Sylvanna tightened the bowstring across her chest and fell into step. The last traces of adrenaline trembled in her fingers, but her eyes were clear — hungry, focused. She said nothing, only mirrored his stride.
