The journey to the castle took two agonizing days, a stretch of time that seemed to warp and expand under the weight of its purpose.
Matt and Sam rode in dogged, unbroken rhythm through the ancient forest near the borderlands. Overhead, the canopy was a tangled, suffocating ceiling of black oak and skeletal ash that choked out the autumn sun, leaving the forest floor in a state of perpetual, chilly twilight. The air smelled of rotting pine needles, damp loam, and the sharp, metallic tang of impending frost. Their pace remained steady, their eyes constantly scanning the shifting shadows between the trunks. This wood was old, wild, and rife with things that preyed on the unwary, but the dangers of the forest felt distant compared to the storm brewing in Matt's own mind. He had strongly accustomed himself to the grimmerie of the woods.
