Chapter 13: The Art of Stalking
Three men walked through the dense undergrowth of the Sylmare Forest, their footsteps were muffled by the damp earth beneath them. Twigs snapped under heavy boots, and the rustle of leaves accompanied each of their movement. One of them—a burly man with a patchy beard and a crooked grin—carried an unconscious girl draped over his shoulder. Her fine garments, once pristine, were now dirtied and torn, and her golden strands of hair was dangling limply against the man's back.
"Sure we're goin' the right way?" one of the men grunted, glancing over his shoulder.
"Course we are," the one carrying the girl snapped.
"Just keep movin'. Less talkin', more walkin'."
The third man, who was lanky with sharp features, darted his eyes around nervously, he muttered under his breath:
"This place gives me the creeps..."
Unbeknownst to them, they were not alone.
A figure moved silently among the trees, weaving through the shadows with careful steps. Velren's breath was steady. He never left his gaze on the trio ahead as he trailed them.
Stay low, stay quiet.
His knees were bent slightly with every step, shifting his weight gently to avoid the crunch of fallen leaves and twigs.
His chest tightened, and his nerves were prickling under his skin, but he held firm on his resolve.