The dense canopy of the forest filtered the golden morning sun into fragmented rays, casting jagged shadows across the forest floor. The air was thick—not with danger, but with expectation. Nero and Khione moved like wounded wolves, slow and deliberate. Their postures told the story of exhaustion. Their eyes, dulled to feign weariness, flickered with concealed sharpness.
They no longer used their detection spells to their fullest range.
That was intentional.
By now, they had determined that their mysterious stalker had some means of perceiving magical fluctuations. The moment they cast wide-ranged detection spells, the enemy would slink further into the dark, hiding their scent, their presence, their malice.
So instead, they gave nothing.
Only two predators, dragging their wounded bodies forward—appearing vulnerable, gasping, injured.
An illusion.
