The warmth of the onyx soon became unbearable. Vardille let it hang over his shirt so it would not burn his skin.

Cold pierced his chest, his lungs. He controlled his breathing; he did not want to be drained by the time he would reach Bryne.

A growl shattered the silence of the night. Vardille froze and sidestepped, avoiding claws materializing from the night. He did not bother with his sword; two shadows emerged from the ground, stabbing the beast with a flurry of thrusts. A whine and a glottalized grunt, then silence fell again. Not glancing back, Vardille continued his journey—this time, more cautious.

Soon, light dissipated the darkness among the trees ahead. Spots of glowing red compelled Vardille to stop and curse the Gods in silence. The sick sense of helplessness seemed to consume his body. He walked on, head low, sneaking.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Figures moved among the trees. Tall silhouettes of abominations Vardille had never seen; the comically long limbs of several humanoid monstrosities and a stout, languish form a horse-like beast made him thank the night for his obscure vision. The beast he slain had probably ventured away from the group, but now Vardille felt trapped; surrounded.

The onyx burnt. Faelin was in use—a great amount. He needed to get to Bryne, but he knew it would be suicide to rush past the unknown beasts.

He decided to go around. Perhaps he would find some way. He vaguely realised that his brain clouded his judgement of the situation; it was far direr than it seemed. If they caught Bryne, if the King was in the middle of the horde…

He sneaked. Silent, cautious. He must find a way.

The onyx burnt.