On the other side of Eccar and company's camp, deep within the winding trails of the forest, a different rhythm pulsed.
The group of ten adventurers moving at a slow pace. Laughter echoed between the trunks, the sound of relaxed boots crushing leaves, idle talk about food, woman, and petty rivalries happening around them. They weren't worried in the slightest.
After all, the amulets they carried granted them a strange but undeniable immunity to the dangers of the forest's Magical mist and corruption. The plants didn't twist toward them. The air didn't thicken with cold mist like it did for others. So they walked like travelers on a carefree holiday, basking in the illusion of safety.
But Darel, at the front, wasn't laughing.
He kept his eyes ahead. He didn't look on the path but on the shifting trees beyond it. His hand rested close to the hilt of his sword, fingers tapping absently against the steel.
