"We cannot linger here," Nioh declared, his voice firm despite the exhaustion gnawing at him.
"Let me fix your bandages," Kyle offered, already reaching for the torn fabric across Nioh's chest. His fingers worked with practiced efficiency, pressing against bruised flesh as he tightened the wrappings. Nioh didn't resist—his body was too drained to protest, and Kyle's treatment, though rough, was necessary.
Meanwhile, Brae and Juith moved to scout the perimeter, their weapons at the ready. Trum, still mortified by his reaction from the night before, remained silent, his shoulders hunched under the weight of his shame.
"How far have we strayed from the path?" Nioh asked, breaking the silence.
Kyle glanced up at the sky, his brow furrowing as he scanned the unfamiliar terrain. The land had shifted drastically, its landmarks distorted in the chaotic aftermath of their escape. He exhaled slowly. "I'm not sure. Everything looks different—I might need more time to find the right way."
