Back in the woods, Micha'el paused.
A single leaf fell before him, brushing the side of his cheek. He blinked.
The silence behind him was unsettling.
The forest was never this quiet.
He turned slightly, his hand brushing the hilt of Vael'turien. His grip tightened.
Not far behind him, the White Fang drew in a slow, deliberate breath—its fangs still stained crimson, its gaze locked onto the elf who had unknowingly stepped into its hunt.
But this time, it wasn't alone. Shadows shifted behind it—more figures emerging between the trees, silent and deadly. The Alpha had brought its pack.
For too long, the elves had hunted its kin. Now, it was their turn to feel the bite of vengeance.
Meanwhile, on the eastern edge of Aetherthorn, a blur of panic and poor decisions darted between tree trunks—Auren, sprinting like a madman, while massive bee stingers rained from the sky like divine punishment.
