The rhythmic footsteps of the small group echoed softly against the damp earth, which was increasingly carpeted by a layer of fine, velvet-like moss. Behind them, the warm, artificial amber glow of Terragard's industrial lamps began to fade, slowly eclipsed by the pale, ethereal emerald luminescence radiating from the gargantuan roots that snaked across the cavern ceiling. Dayat paused for a moment to adjust the heavy straps of his tactical rucksack, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the Silver Thorn—the Adamantite blade of the fallen Verdian hero—strapped securely to his back. To Dayat, the sword remained an enigma; a relic of history he had yet to draw, though he valued its molecular density as raw material far more than the sharpness of its edge.
They had barely traversed a hundred meters from the organic gateway opened by Lunethra when a frantic, metallic clattering echoed from the shadows behind them. It was the sound of heavy plate armor in a desperate hurry.
