The forest had grown darker, even though the sun still hovered in the sky. Eitan trudged through thick roots and overgrown ferns, his hand clutched tightly around Elia's wrist, helping her walk. Her steps were uneven, her silver-white hair matted with blood, and her robes were torn across the back where Halden's spell had burned through the fabric—and her skin.
They were far from the battlefield now. Hours had passed since the teleportation scroll had pulled them from the brink of death and dropped them deep into the Blackridge wilderness. But peace had not followed them. Only pain. Silence. And exhaustion.
Elia stumbled, a choked gasp escaping her lips.
"Hey—careful," Eitan murmured, catching her before she hit the ground.
