The violet moon of Deadmore had reached its zenith, casting long, skeletal shadows that seemed to reach out from the petrified trees to drag at Hannah's heels. The air had grown thick with a freezing, spectral mist. For a human, every breath in this place was a battle; for Hannah, whose body was already ravaged by the Sovereign's brand and the physical toll of the hunt, it was becoming a losing war.
Her vision began to tunnel, the edges of the forest blurring into a smear of dark grey and bruised purple. She stumbled over a gnarled root, the heavy carcasses of the Grave-Skulkers dragging her down. She wondered, in a daze of exhaustion, what they were even doing here. Thorn had mentioned a week. Was it to be seven days of this? Seven days of being a pack animal for a god who loathed her?
