A few minutes passed.
Michael's eyes tracked the faint connection he felt with his summoned soldiers—thin threads of awareness tugging at the edge of his mind. It wasn't vision exactly, more like knowing where they were at all times.
Then one thread snapped.
Michael froze.
One of the skeletons was gone.
His grip on the spear tightened, a flicker of unease crawling through his chest.
The creatures weren't invincible, but for one to simply wink out that quickly meant something had gotten the jump on it.
And that something might still be nearby.
He could have turned back. Losing a scout was warning enough. But Michael wasn't here to scrape by.
He needed points—and sitting still, avoiding fights, would never get him to a hundred.
He pushed forward, following the direction where the thread had broken.
The mist thickened as he advanced, wrapping around his boots like coils of smoke. Each step was deliberate, the silence pressing hard on his ears.
Then it came.
