The forest opened like a mouth would.
Ian stepped between the roots of gnarled pine-beasts and thorn-brushed undergrowth, his boots muffled by layers of damp, decaying leaves.
The sun never quite touched this place. Even at midday, it was all shadow — gray light filtered through mist and moss, tangled in hanging vines like webs spun by blind gods.
He moved soundlessly.
No blade drawn.
He didn't need to.
A Rotspawn Mite — no larger than a wolf, its flesh spongy and spotted with mold — leapt from a tree trunk with a shriek. Ian raised a hand lazily, flicked two fingers, and the thing burst mid-air — a wet pop, splattering fungal ichor across the branches.
Vermin rank.
Nothing more.
The next was a Hollow-Tusk Boar, tusks like rotted spears and red sores covering its back. It charged with a furious squeal.
