Dylan rushed forward, machete in hand, sprinting through the trees without restraint, running to her aid.
He picked up the pace when he heard a gunshot. Just one. The last one.
But this time, he was close enough to hear her scream. And it wasn't a cry for help:
— "Die, you filthy pieces of shit!"
It was the voice of the young elf—the one who was supposed to go get food. Clearly, she'd run into something bad. Bad enough to force her to pull her sidearm. That explained the harsh tone and the rage in her voice.
Dylan slowed down. His sprint turned into a calculated walk. He weaved between the trees, his steps nearly soundless. His eyes scanned the hedge separating him from the scene.
What he saw made him shiver.
Élisa was wounded in the arm, blood dripping down to her hand, clenched tightly around her pistol. She stood among three hobgoblin corpses, their blackish blood soaking into the moss at her feet. Two others were still standing, hesitant, but ready to pounce at any moment.
