Ashenfen shifted when they moved through it—not in sound, but in rhythm.
Dark elves carried themselves like part of the forest's pulse, slipping between roots and low branches with practised ease. Packs rested against their backs without straps creaking, crates balanced on shoulders as if weight meant little more than a suggestion. They moved in staggered lines, never clumping, never breaking sight with one another for too long. To Luke, it looked less like travel and more like a procession the forest itself had approved.
Luke and Ilyrana carried their share as well. Not out of obligation—no one had asked—but because it felt wrong not to. Luke had slung a pack across his shoulders, lighter now that unnecessary supplies had been left behind. Ilyrana carried a wrapped bundle with the same quiet confidence she always did, steps measured, gaze forward, never once hesitating.
