The world outside Grosh'ka was an ever-changing maze of dread and wonder.
The scouting party moved silently through the jagged undergrowth of a shattered forest—trees like twisted bones, vines that hummed with latent mana, and ground that occasionally pulsed beneath their boots as if alive. They'd been on the road for days now, keeping their heads low, marking their routes with subtle scratches on stone and rune chalk left behind like breadcrumbs.
Under David's guidance, the group had slowly gelled together. The awkward tensions between races—orc, human, minotaur, and a few half-beastkin—had dulled with time. There were still occasional spats, of course, but the wilderness had a way of pushing old grudges aside. Hunger, exhaustion, and constant danger reminded them that survival mattered more than pride.
"Careful," whispered Nelda, a sharp-eyed minotaur scout, her curved axe resting against her shoulder. "Tracks up ahead. Beast... Big one."
