Leaves crumbled beneath Adam's feet, the scents of pine and wild game—freshly killed—filled his nose. Long blood trails stretched across the musty earth. They snaked through trees and mounds to the predators' burrow.
Mushrooms clung to roots and gnarled barks, feeding on glistening sap. Insects stood on patterned webs of their own making, poised on grass, ready to strike smaller prey, or flying from one plant to another, each playing their part with clear purpose. No matter how he looked at them, they were more than creatures—they were the forest's silent architects.
Amidst the wonder, his eyes narrowed on the ghostly mist blanketing the forest. It licked his skin a little more with each step. Cradled against his chest, Qing shuddered as the frosty sensation increased, and in front of him, Yann let out disgruntled grunts.
