Draven's threat hung in the crisp morning air, sharp enough to cut right through the remaining patches of fog. He didn't wait for a response, nor did he look back.
He simply grabbed the heavy burlap sack of rations, slung it over his broad shoulder, and marched out of the clearing, his boots sinking deep into the damp earth.
His towering frame cut a lonely, rigid path ahead, his aura radiating a cold, unyielding wall that practically warned the world to keep its distance.
Zenon let out a long, slow breath, carefully rubbing his sore ribs before adjusting the straps of his brown travel bag. He fell into step beside me as we started down the trail, keeping a deliberate distance behind the brooding warlord.
"Seraphina," Zenon murmured, his dark eyes fixed on the back of Draven's dark hair. "We need to talk about what we're actually up against here. It's not just the capital vipers. It's him."
