The sound of blood dripping onto the forest floor was the only noise in the deafening silence of the mountain woods.
Not even the chirping of insects or the rustling of leaves—just pure, suffocating stillness.
That, more than anything, was the most ominous sign.
Even so, they kept moving. Blood clung to their skin, dried in places and still fresh in others. Sylvia tried to heal Damon, but he brushed her off, his expression cold and unreadable. She didn't press further.
The others were treated for their injuries, yet the strangest thing was Xander—who had taken a direct hit from a war troll. By all logic, he should have been dead, or at the very least severely injured. But when Sylvia examined him, there wasn't a single bruise. No swelling. No internal bleeding.
It didn't make sense.
Damon staggered forward, his fingers clenched into fists, his body soaked in blood—some his, some not.
Sylvia was scared.
She had been for a while now.