The fire crackled low between them, casting long shadows against the warped trees of Umbra's End. Garrik sat cross-legged on a patch of dry moss, his sword unsheathed and resting across his knees. Though his body bore scratches and grime, there was no mistaking the resolve in his eyes—a hardened glint earned through days of isolation, survival, and skirmishes with Fallen.
Bane crouched nearby, sharpening his axe with slow, deliberate strokes. Phil leaned against a crooked tree, arms folded, his scythe buried in the dirt beside him like a silent sentinel.
"You're sure it's still bound?" Bane asked without looking up.
"I would've known if it wasn't," Garrik replied. "The air near it trembles. It's not fully awake, but it's stirring. The seal's breaking."
Phil pushed off the tree. "We can't hit it directly. You saw what it did to that clearing. If it senses us coming, it'll accelerate its mutation."
