In the dream, Rus found himself in a dense, ancient forest. Towering trees stretched so high that they completely blocked out the sky above.
Yet everything he saw was red—not green.
The ground was littered with corpses and mangled limbs—some elven, some human—twisted and broken, each face frozen in an expression of fury and terror.
The forest was ablaze.
Rus inhaled the stench of blood and ash, the choking air nearly suffocating him.
He sidestepped a thrown spear and swung his longsword. A flash of blood-red light cleaved the air, slicing a massive tree clean in two. It fell with a thunderous crash, elven limbs and blood spraying into the air.
Charging forward, Rus kicked open a heavy door and burst into a clearing.
There, three aged elven women stood around a sacred spring, chanting fervently.
Rus couldn't understand their incantations, but a storm of panic and fury welled up inside him. He strode toward them, raising his sword to threaten them, but none wavered.
