Darkness cloaked the eastern side of the Deserted Isle as the crescent moon barely peeked through the thick clouds. The once-still forest floor now bore the pounding footsteps of a lone figure racing through the trees, each step lighter than the last yet more desperate.
Alex Dragonheart was running for his life.
The night hung heavy over the Deserted Isle like a suffocating veil, shrouding everything in an eerie silence broken only by the crunch of footsteps slamming through the underbrush.
"Shit... shit... shit..." he whispered, barely able to hear his own voice over the rushing wind in his ears. His heart pounded—not just from exhaustion, but from sheer terror. Branches scratched his face. His boots, scuffed and nearly torn, struck the dry ground with a precision born of training and panic alike.
"Move, move, MOVE!" he hissed to himself, legs pumping as he darted through the thick foliage, heading toward the eastern side of the island like a man possessed.
