The next two days passed in the rhythm of hardship and silence.
They crossed hills where nothing but twisted trees clung to crumbling cliffs. Valleys where the mist pooled like old ghosts too tired to rise. The Bastos region seemed to fight their every step — a land that did not forget, nor forgive.
Day and night interchanged as they moved, while the scenery seemed to change visibly from ugly to bad to bearable. Thankfully, at least, there were no Reavers hunting them here.
By the time they broke through the last of the hills, the March was far behind them. The oppressive gloom lifted, if only slightly. Before them stretched a small forested region, dark but not cursed. The air smelled of damp wood instead of blood.
It felt almost like breathing again.
Robin had slipped away from the group earlier, silent as a shadow dissolving into morning mist. Half an hour had passed since.
