The trees stood still, yet the forest breathed with malice.
The abominations—yes, that's what they were, for no other name could hope to encapsulate the blasphemy of their form—crept closer with each passing second. Limbs too long, torsos twisted, bone poking through flesh like broken armor. A sickening mixture of man and nightmare slithered forward, eyes vacant, jaws slack, and bodies jerking forward with a horrifying rhythm. No wind. No birds. Just the sound of the flame crackling behind and the subtle snap of scorched twigs under the claw.
Luke's throat tightened as he and Ilyrana instinctively backed away. His hand hovered over the flamethrower trigger, sweat already breaking out along his forehead. Ilyrana's daggers were still wet with blood, but her stance was guarded, rigid, her elven instincts screaming louder than any logic.
They both knew the truth.
They couldn't fight these things. Not here. Not now. Not alone.
Even one would cost them dearly—perhaps their lives.
