The rain had stopped, leaving the cityscape a glossy mirage under the moon's glow. The sirens had faded to an eerie whine that seemed to be part of the very fabric of the night. Oliver's eyes scanned the rooftops for any sign of movement, his heart pounding in his ears. He knew he couldn't stay here for long; the Enforcers would be combing the area, looking for any trace of him.
With a deep breath, he stood up and backed away from the edge of the cliff, the memory of the candle-lit room and its sweet scent lingering like a warning in his mind. The woods beckoned to him, a dense thicket of shadows that promised cover and concealment. The branches whispered secrets of freedom and survival as he approached, the leaves crunching under his boots a comforting sound compared to the echoes of the city's chaos.
Oliver pushed through the underbrush, his eyes adjusting to the moonlit path ahead. The trees stretched tall above him, their ancient limbs reaching out like the arms of lost gods. Each step took him further from the clutches of the Toranth regime, but the silence was not reassuring. It was the quiet before the storm, the calm before the inevitable pursuit. He knew the Enforcers had dogs, trained to sniff out the scent of fear and rebellion.
The forest grew denser, the shadows thickening around him like a cloak of protection. He stumbled upon a makeshift camp, the remnants of a recent fire smoldering amidst a circle of bedrolls. His heart leaped with hope, then sank as he saw the bloodstains on the ground. The camp was abandoned, but not by choice. The signs of a struggle were clear: overturned supplies, torn fabric, and a trail of crimson leading deeper into the woods. A nonbeliever was likely infected by the virus, by now the majority would be immune to it, especially children, but older adults were still prone to the virus.
Oliver took a moment to catch his breath, his eyes stinging from the acrid smoke of the doused fire. He knew he had to keep moving, but he also knew that if the Enforcers found this place, they'd suspect that nonbelievers were nearby. He took a few supplies from the camp, hoping to leave no trace of his presence.
The trail of blood grew fainter as he ventured deeper into the woods. The trees whispered of the horrors that had unfolded here, the silent witnesses to the brutal battle that had taken place. His stomach turned at the thought of what might have happened to the camp's inhabitants. The virus had changed so much in such a short time, turning a once-peaceful land into a breeding ground for fear and desperation.
Oliver knew that the nonbelievers had safe houses scattered throughout the city, hidden in plain sight. They had to be close; the camp was a known rendezvous point. He pushed aside the branches of a thorny bush, revealing a narrow, almost invisible path. His instincts told him to follow it. The moon cast long shadows that danced and twisted as he moved, as if the very trees were trying to disguise the way forward.
He had been on the run for what felt like an eternity, dodging the Enforcers, who had grown more ruthless with each passing day. The once-beautiful city of Toranth had become a prison, its gleaming temples now the bastions of fear and despair. The virus had turned the faithful into power hungry, and the nonbelievers into the monsters. Oliver's only hope was the Resistance, a group of survivors who had banded together to fight the tyranny that had taken over their world. The path grew steeper, the air colder and damper as he descended into a small valley. The trees here were twisted and gnarled, as if they too had suffered from the madness that gripped the city. The sound of rushing water grew louder, and soon Oliver found himself at the edge of a stream, its surface reflecting the moon's light like a silver ribbon.
The water was icy against his skin as he waded through, the current tugging at his legs. He knew that crossing water could throw the dogs off his scent, but it also meant leaving a trail for the Enforcers to follow. He had to be careful, to balance the need for speed with the need for stealth.
On the other side of the stream, the path grew steeper, leading up to a rocky outcrop. The climb was treacherous, each handhold slippery with moss and the smell of damp earth. Oliver's muscles burned with effort, but he pushed on, driven by the thought of what waited for him if he was caught. Finally, he reached the top, panting and exhausted. Before him lay a clearing, illuminated by the moon's soft glow.
As Oliver lay in the grass a heavy weight washes over him; struggling to stay aware, Oliver slowly falls into a deep slumber