Time stood still, its passage held captive by the pale moonlight shining down from the cloudless expanse of the sky.
An eerie silence had settled over the night, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire and the distant rumbling of thunder. A wicked castle glowed against the horizon with a crimson fervor, its black spires rising out of the mountains, a constant reminder of the Lich King’s reign—a reign they hoped to end.
But not without a hot meal first.
Isaiah stared at the pot of stew simmering over the flames, licking his dry lips and tapping his foot impatiently against the rocky soil. “Remind me again,” he said, “why, in all the stories, the fate of the world rests in the hands of a bunch of idiot kids?”
Silence. Not even the crickets responded to his quip.
He sighed and continued to stir the pot, its savory scents masking the rot and decay of the badlands around them. They made camp in the foothills of the nearby mountains, nestled between copses of wilting trees and sheer rock faces. A cage of skeleton-like branches wrapped around their campsite in an unsettling embrace, hiding them from the minions of darkness patrolling the wastes. They had decided to risk the fire tonight; it had been far too long since they had a decent meal.
Despite the circumstances, he relished these moments—even if his companions were as moody as they came. The Lich King’s reign had taken much from them, but it could never take away quiet evenings spent among friends.
Or so they thought.
Lisbeth, her dirty-blonde curls splayed out every which way, laid sprawled out on her knapsack, one arm pulled up over her face to cover her eyes. She conjured a small blue fireball, its tail twirling between her fingertips with masterful precision, before it settled just above her face. It rose and fell with her breath, illuminating the deep contours of her cheeks with an otherworldly glow. She glanced his way on occasion, then quickly looked away, pretending to be lost in thought.
Isaiah smiled weakly, but its blunt edge did little to cut through the tension in the air. He knew she blamed him for what happened to Alan—her and Nichol both.
