The time had come.
There was no more waiting. No more thinking. Just the pounding of Luke's heart against his ribs, and the soft, shifting tension in Ilyrana's limbs as they both locked eyes—just for a second—before breaking into a sprint.
They ran.
Behind them, the world trembled.
Trees cracked, splintered, and fell. Some groaned as they bent under unnatural weight before snapping like twigs. The abominations were coming. Their inhuman forms didn't leap or charge—they simply moved, massive, inevitable, tearing through the thick of the woods like something older than life itself. The sound wasn't a roar, nor a scream. It was a wet, meaty thunder of muscle and malformed bones scraping against bark.
Luke and Ilyrana ducked, weaved, their feet flying over roots and dead leaves. Every step was a beat in a desperate drumline, thump-thump-thump, a tempo of survival.
Luke glanced back once. Just once.
