The damp air clung to them like a second skin, thick with the iron-sweet stench of something far worse than blood. Ludwig stood motionless amidst the writhing vegetation, his stillness unnatural against the twitching leaves and shuddering branches. The so-called professionals around him now gripped their weapons with white-knuckled hands, their breath coming in shallow gasps that fogged in the unnatural chill.
Death meant nothing to Ludwig. A minor inconvenience at worst. He could rewind time and redo what was done, rectify what went wrong. But for them? Each ragged breath might be their last. The realization hung between them like the mist coiling around their ankles.
The falchion-wielder stepped forward, his blade trembling slightly despite his deathgrip on the hilt. Sweat carved clean trails through the grime on his face as he studied Ludwig with new wariness. "Do you even feel fear, Davon?" The question hung between them, heavier than the humid air.
