Vlora was running.
His clawed feet hit the forest floor in rapid strides, kicking up dirt and broken branches as he weaved between the trees.
Shadows bent and stretched around him, the residue of his power distorting the space he passed through.
He didn't have a destination. Not really.
Just one thought pulsing through his head.
Get away.
His monstrous body that looked like a lizard, usually towering and proud, now bent low, arms tucked in, heart pounding.
He was alone.
And he hated it.
No more waves of Keldars to shield him.
No more summons. No more servants. No more carriage.
Because he was gone now, too.
And Vlora knew why.
But before we get there—
We need to go back.
Back to when the last town had first been attacked. Before Arlon came. Before the Gamers entered the pit.
Back to when Vlora wasn't running.
He had been standing at the edge of the same town, arms folded behind his back, tail swaying lazily like a banner in the wind.
