The wisp flutters ahead, a flickering lantern of pale fire that dips and weaves like a mischievous spirit, always just out of reach. What began as a slow, cautious glide has now become a relentless chase, forcing them to move swiftly, their breath misting in the cool mountain air.
The terrain changes beneath their feet—Solid ground gives way to muddy, waterlogged earth, thick with the scent of wet leaves and stagnant water. A swollen stream has turned the valley into a boggy mire, where squelching mud clings like grasping hands and twisted roots lurk beneath the surface.
Mato halts at the edge, scowling. He tests the ground, pulling his foot free with a grunt. “Step wrong, and you’ll be digging yourself out till morning.”
Takota shifts uneasily, his usual grace faltering as he faces the slick, treacherous muck. Ahead they can see the light bobbing forward.