The Forest of Trials was a lie.
It was less of a forest and more of a vaguely threatening collection of trees with a serious mud problem. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, pine needles, and something else… something that smelled vaguely like cheap cologne and existential dread.
I strode through the mud, my very expensive, very black boots making a series of deeply unsatisfying squelching sounds.
"This is a tactical nightmare," I announced to my two commanders, who were moving through the trees with a silent, deadly grace that I was frankly jealous of. "The ground is soft, the sight lines are terrible, and my coat is going to need a dry clean. This is unacceptable."
Isabelle, my divine and deadly Blade Saint, moved at my right, her hand resting on the hilt of her reforged sword, Dáinsleif. Her eyes, which now held a faint, divine light, scanned the shadows, missing nothing.
"He knows we are here, my Lord," she said, her voice a low murmur. "He is watching."
