The forest behind the orphanage was pitch black, the thick pine branches overhead blocking out what little moonlight remained in the late hours of the night. The air carried the sharp, biting chill of the early morning, mixed with the damp, heavy scent of wet earth, crushed leaves, and pine needles.
Philia walked at a slow, deliberate pace, his light leather boots making barely a sound against the soft carpet of fallen debris. Beside him, Valen kept pace without effort, his eyes constantly scanning the dense shadows around them as they made their way back through the thick tree line.
