The Clouds Speak Of Old Times

HAZEL BROWN

Hazel and Arthur followed the sound of the roar, moving swiftly through the undergrowth. The night air was thick with something heavy, something that made Hazel's skin prickle.

Then, in time, they saw him.

The Guardian.

His spear tip pulsed with an eerie blue light, drifting beside him like a firefly as he leaped from tree to tree. He moved with practiced ease, his form barely making a sound against the rustling leaves. He was heading in the same direction as them.

But then—he stopped.

His glowing eyes turned, wide and unblinking, locking onto them.

With a single leap, he landed before them.

The impact sent a brief gust of wind against Hazel's face, his presence pressing down on them like a physical weight.

"I do not recall asking you both for a tour," he said, voice low and even.

Hazel and Arthur skidded to a halt.