The night was deep, the sky a vast canvas of blackness streaked with faint silver light. The moons were half-full, casting long, flickering shadows across the rolling landscape.
The air was crisp, filled with the scent of damp earth, wild herbs, and the lingering traces of distant storms.
And through it all—they ran.
Malakar was at the front, moving with a calm, unshaken rhythm. His skeletal frame needed no rest, no food, no water. His violet-flamed eyes remained focused, ever watching, ever calculating.
Argolaith kept close behind, feeling the slow burn of exertion creep into his limbs. He wasn't slowing yet—he refused to slow. But he wasn't Malakar. He was flesh and blood, and no matter how strong, fatigue would eventually catch up to him.
So he adapted.
With one hand, he reached into the satchel at his waist, pulling free a bloodbloom root. It was deep red, its surface marked with faint gold veins. Without hesitation, he bit into it.
