Somewhere far from civilization, on the shadowed edge of the Blackroot Forest…
The smell of moss and wet earth thickened with every step. Twisted roots snaked along the trail like the fingers of something long dead. Trees towered, their leaves blotting out the afternoon sun, leaving the path dim, the air unnaturally still.
"Young Master," the old man said quietly, pausing at the treeline. His armor, dented and scorched, clinked as he turned. "We have no choice. The only path left is through this forest."
The youth behind him wrinkled his nose in disgust. Draped in tattered silks once meant for courtly halls, his once-gleaming armor dulled by ash and blood, he looked more offended than afraid. He drew a perfumed kerchief to his nose and hissed, "You expect me to set foot in that filthy place? Do you have any idea what creatures might live in there? Gods—what if they touch me?"
