The black smoke from the remnants of the West Gate's explosion still billowed high into the night sky, a towering pillar of grief for the capital of Vaelith. Beneath the shadows of the colossal trees that marked the boundary between Elven civilization and the untamed wild, Dayat fell to his knees. The damp earth felt cold against his palms, but his body temperature felt like molten metal freshly poured from a forge.
"Dayat!" Lunethra cried out, reaching for his slumped shoulders. "You've pushed yourself too far! Enough, we can hide in the thickets, I know these paths—"
"No..." Dayat interrupted, his voice a jagged rasp. He lifted his face, and Lunethra recoiled slightly. Fresh blood streamed from his left nostril, coating his chin and dripping onto the mossy ground. "The pace of our footsteps... will never outrun their Verdant Stags. If we are caught now, there won't be a second chance at the light."
