The thorns thinned, but the path never truly cleared.
Leaves brushed their shoulders, wet from mist and dew, while the undergrowth whispered with every step. The deeper they moved, the more the light seemed to dim, as if the forest swallowed the sun with each breath they took.
Zeon, ever confident, pushed a branch aside with one hand and waved with the other.
"We're almost there," he called back casually.
Dila furrowed her brows. "Almost where?" she asked flatly, weaving around a crooked root that nearly caught her foot.
Zeon turned slightly, just enough for her to see the faint smirk on his lips. "To the secret arena, of course. Where else?"
His tone was dry—just enough sarcasm to make her want to throw a pinecone at his head.
Still, she said nothing. Just kept walking.
But something had shifted.
