The plan had shifted. No longer were Luke, Ilyrana, and Vartha merely prey in a hopeless chase across the sands and scrub. No—now they had chosen to turn back, to seize the reins of fate and charge into the storm.
Moments ago, their only thought had been escape. To outpace the shadows, to keep breathing one more hour, one more day. But running could only last so long. The shadows didn't tire. The shadows didn't falter. And worse, the shadows were not the true enemy—only the harbingers, the projections, the scent-hounds of something far darker.
Now, the carriage barreled across the uneven earth, wheels jolting over roots and stone. Luke's hands were tight on the reins, knuckles pale, while Vartha, mighty even in her fatigue, lunged forward with every ounce of her feline strength. The nightmarish silhouettes followed, always there, always close, never attacking—yet their shrieks tore through the air, announcing their quarry to masters unseen.
