The thrum of the gunship was a tectonic shift in the forest's symphony. It wasn't the high, searching whine of the scout drone; this was a deep, chest-rattling bass note of pure, impending violence. The joyful resurgence of the forest's song after the null-field's collapse was instantly smothered under this new, overwhelming dissonance.
They didn't speak. They ran.
There was no time for harmonious blending, for subtle integration with the environment. Survival was a raw, primal chord of fear and adrenaline. Mara led, her bow slung over her shoulder, her knife now in her hand as she slashed through clinging vines and low-hanging branches. Elian followed, half-dragging Corvin, whose face was a mask of pain and exhaustion. The brief, miraculous healing of the clearing had cost them. The resonant effort had drained their already frayed energies, and Corvin's body was paying the price.
