The fog in the heart of the Deadmore Forest had thickened into a viscous, violet soup that clung to the throat like cobwebs. The air was a symphony of wet, tearing sounds as Hebner Grand moved through the undergrowth with the efficient, terrifying grace of a reaper.
He had spent the last hour culling the local population of Grave-Skulkers—vile, multi-limbed beasts with translucent skin and organs that pulsed with a stagnant, grey ichor. To the Lympory, they were merely fuel for the Clemadead; to a human, they were the stuff of nightmares made flesh.
Hebner turned, his hair shimmering like a blade in the dim light, and tossed the carcass of a third Skulker toward Hannah. "Carry it," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rasp. "The beast requires fresh marrow. If you cannot contribute your strength, you are merely luggage."
