Elsewhere.
A young man stood beside a freshly dug grave, gripping his scythe tightly.
The man-sized hole he had just covered up was still fresh, the dirt uneven.
Inside it—a body.
Dorion exhaled, his breath heavy with fatigue and frustration. His gaze stayed locked on the grave, his face shadowed with conflicted emotions.
He didn't understand.
Why?
Why had Ezekiel done it?
Why had he taken a sword meant for him?
It didn't make sense.
Dorion's mind raced as he replayed the moment.
He tried to piece it together, but no matter how many times he went over it, it just wouldn't add up.
Earlier...
He tore through the cocoon of the nightmare, breaking free from its suffocating grasp.
His wounds burned, but he ignored the pain, grabbing a healing potion and downing it in one gulp.
Then, without hesitation—he turned towards the forest.
Ezekiel was out there somewhere.
And Dorion was going to find him.
