The soldiers scrambled back, their faces pale and weapons trembling in their hands as the air itself seemed to curdle with malice. All of them have left, leaving behind only Jolthar, his drake, and Wymar.
Jolthar stood like a monolith beside his drake, Maelruth, whose low, rumbling growls vibrated through the air.
Wymar clenched his jaw, his usual arrogance replaced by a cold sweat. The forest around them had fallen unnaturally silent—no birds, no rustling leaves, only the growing, discordant noise. It wasn't a roar, nor a screech, but a wet, guttural sound that clawed at the mind, like the grinding of bone against sinew.
"littareik," Wymar hissed, his voice unsteady. He flicked his fingers toward a fallen tree trunk ahead of them. Flames erupted from his palm, igniting the damp wood in a burst of unnatural fire. The blaze roared to life, casting jagged shadows across the clearing.
For a heartbeat, the light revealed nothing.
Then—'movement'.
