The tunnels stretched on endlessly, winding through darkness and decay. The Exiled Legions ran without stopping, the echoes of their footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Behind them, Dexter's suffocating aura still clung to the air, even in his absence—a reminder of just how close they had come to death.
—
Cain was the first to speak, his voice sharp and low. "I don't care what anyone says, that wasn't Dexter. That was something else."
Nick let out a breathless chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "You think? The bastard just took on Daemon and didn't even break a sweat. I'd call that a problem."
Archer swore under his breath, bow still clutched tightly in his grip. "Forget the fight—we almost died just standing near him."
Gerald, gripping his blade tightly, hesitated. "Are we really just running away?"
Cain didn't look at him. "We're retreating. There's a difference."
