The sun was descending when Garrick finally called for a halt.
The evening air was moist and carried the subtle scent of damp earth and rotting wood— a rather common theme in Malady's Garden.
The breeze was chilly.
Nero sucked in a lungful of the chilly air and savored it.
They had been walking for hours in relative silence, broken only by the sound of boots squelching through the mud and the occasional rustle of something moving through the underbrush.
The black river flowed beside them, its putrid waters a constant reminder of here they were.
The dangerous wilderness. There was no illusion of safety in this place.
Nero's legs ached a bit. The fight with the ghoul had taken more out of him than he'd realized. His arms still trembled slightly from maintaining control over Gungnir's shifting weight.
And that wasn't all.
