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We inch through the gloom, our breathing tight and shallow. I adjust my goggles, peering into the murk ahead while Clay keeps Leo tucked close against him, a solid wall between the boy and whatever waits in the shadows. King Malakar’s hunger hangs over us — he wants the child, a living bargaining chip. Leo clutches Clay’s jacket sleeve, his small fingers trembling. The forest here is too thick, too still; it swallows the bloody red sky and wraps us in a silence that feels heavy and false. This quiet is the most dangerous part of the board — here, calm is only ever the prelude to chaos.