A chill clung to the pre-dawn air as Vexital made his exit from Sluyrora's western gate, the sunrise still a faint promise behind leaden clouds. Every step along the winding road felt heavier than the last, as if the city's many sins conspired to drag him back into its corruption. He glanced over his shoulder now and then, expecting to see torches bobbing in grim pursuit—mercenaries or thugs hungry for the bounty that rumour might soon place on his head. The night's rain had turned the narrow path into slick mud, and his boots sank in up to the ankles, making each footfall a burden. With each squelch, memories of Kaelith's blood—sticky and warm on his blade—gripped his mind, refusing to let him forget. You let go… We found you…, a voice taunted inside, leaving him to wonder if the city's damp gloom had truly receded or simply taken root in his heart. The great wooden gates behind him groaned shut, cutting off the last echo of Sluyrora's chaos and sealing him in a silence that only promised new terrors.
Beyond the city walls, the land opened into rolling hills veined with skeletal trees—a stark and windswept countryside known for harbouring both bandits and beasts twisted by foul magic. Thin mist clung to the hollows in the earth, swirling around dead grass and half-buried stones, giving the terrain an unearthly pallor. Vexital's breath condensed in pale wisps before him, each exhalation feeding the quiet dread that pressed on his lungs like an invisible weight. He tried to focus on the path ahead, but his thoughts splintered—darting from the burning temple of his visions to the knowledge that if Kaelith had ties to nobility, retribution might be swift. The mere act of breathing felt precarious, as though the world might shift under his feet and hurl him back into illusions he could barely contain. Somewhere to the east, the distant caw of a carrion bird reminded him that life—and death—existed beyond Sluyrora's walls. Wrapping his cloak tighter, he pressed forward, determined to find any refuge that might grant him peace, however brief.
He knew of a small hamlet—Hasterfield—nestled between the hills a day's march away, though what greeting he might find there was anyone's guess. Rumours spoke of wolves that walked on two legs, of travellers who vanished without a trace, and of diseased creatures that prowled the woods by twilight. Once, such rumours would have drawn only a smirk from him; now, they made his pulse flutter, for the lines between fable and reality seemed too thin. The sky remained grey and low, as though it pondered dumping fresh rain or, worse, unleashing some arcane tempest. Around him, the wind sighed through leafless branches, a funereal lament that only heightened his sense of isolation. He listened for footsteps behind him but heard only the slurp of mud around his boots. Despite the hush, a prickling sensation along his nape told him he was not alone—merely unnoticed, for now.
He paused at a small creek that cut across the road, its water reflecting the pewter sky. Kneeling, he splashed his face, the icy shock momentarily clearing the fog of exhaustion that clung to him. Staring into his own reflection, he saw shadows beneath his eyes, and a flicker of something else—a shape hovering just behind him, as if waiting to pull him under. He jerked upright, hand fumbling for the hilt of his sword, breath harsh in his throat. But the creek lay empty, and only the shifting haze of morning light hovered at its edge, leaving him uncertain if the vision was real or another trick of his splintered mind. "Enough," he hissed, forcing the tension from his shoulders and ignoring the tremor in his hands. He trudged on, willing the cold to keep him alert, each footstep feeling like a ward against the illusions that threatened his sanity.
As midday approached, the road led him to a narrow ravine where the wind funneled in biting gusts, carrying an acrid smell that made his eyes water. Rounding a bend, he came upon a grisly sight: several half-eaten corpses, strewn among shattered carts and broken crates. Fear spiked through him, and the taste of bile rose in his throat, but he forced himself to examine the scene—anything else was suicidal ignorance. Deep gouges marred the wood, massive claw marks that suggested no ordinary predator. Flies buzzed in a frantic cloud above the remains, their droning a macabre chorus to the gore. The men and women who had died here wore simple trader's garb, and the crates bore a faded crest—a minor shipping house from Sluyrora, if memory served. Was this the work of beasts twisted by elven curses, or had something even darker emerged from Ellywe's rifts? The rancid air threatened to unman him, but he exhaled sharply and moved on, vigilant for the next sign of doom.
A short distance ahead, he noticed a battered roadside shrine dedicated to Daciros—an old god of safe passage—now blackened by soot and defaced with strange symbols. Once, gods walked openly among mortals, forging alliances or wars with equal ease, until laws were passed forbidding their open presence. Yet their traces lingered, in the tattered remains of temples and the half-whispered stories of travellers who claimed to have glimpsed a deity in the crowd. Vexital felt an uneasy respect for these old shrines; the existence of gods, though mostly driven underground, was a quiet reminder that mortal life was not the only power at play. He muttered a wordless prayer, or perhaps just a silent acknowledgment, and pressed a hand against the battered altar. The wood felt warm under his palm—unaccountably so—sending a tingle up his arm that made the hair on his neck stand on end. Instinct screamed that he should keep moving, as if any direct contact with the divine risked stirring forces beyond his control.
He was about to leave the shrine behind when the wind shifted, bringing with it a guttural snarl that turned his blood to ice. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement—a sinuous shape loping between the barren trees, too large for a wolf, too silent for a bear. The hush of the ravine intensified as the creature slipped into view: skeletal limbs draped in taut, pallid flesh, eyes glowing a sickly yellow. It bared elongated fangs, more reminiscent of a reptilian maw than canine teeth, and he wondered if this was one of the monstrous spawn rumoured to roam near the Ellywe fault-lines. His pulse hammered, and a faint ring of static filled his ears, reminiscent of the tension he'd felt in Sluyrora's broker's chamber. Slowly, he slid a hand to his sword hilt, each breath deliberate, mind flicking through the voices that argued in the back of his head: Fight, run, kill, hide, do something. And from somewhere deep in his memory, he thought he heard a half-forgotten temple bell tolling in the distance—an omen of the violence to come.
Lightning flickered across the sky, a brief flash that revealed a second and third creature skulking behind the first, their eyes reflecting malevolent hunger. The odds were stacked, yet Vexital knew there was no outrunning such beasts—he would have to face them if he hoped to leave this ravine alive. A primal calm settled over him, the same cold focus that guided his blade when every nerve screamed to flee. He drew his sword, the damp air whispering along the steel in a sound that quickened his pulse. Is this where I die? The question soared through his thoughts, but the memory of Kaelith's final laugh answered it with cruel certainty—not yet. The lead creature sprang, jaws wide, and Vexital braced himself, stepping into the oncoming savagery with all the tension of a man who refused to let go of life just yet.