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and legend exist. A realm that calls them, Venators.
corrupt nature becomes obvious as they seek to wield the newly returned Venators as weapons. Wedged in an impossible position, Grey and Rune must decide their fate—do they go against the council’s wishes and help the innocents of this unforgiving land, or face the possibility of execution by the council.”
The terrain started easy enough, with gentle rolling hills dotted at the top with shrubs and masses of wildflowers, then ringed at the base with a wide variety of trees. But the soothing up-down rhythm of the hills soon gave way to a flat expanse that was then abruptly broken by a perfectly straight line of trees stretching for miles in each direction. One moment there was grass, and the next, a wall of trees reaching into the sky like dark sentinels.
Tate strode in.
Grey and Rune both hesitated at the edge, looking down the row of trees, understanding each other’s thoughts without saying a word. Something wasn’t right about this place…but what else could they do but follow Tate?
They stepped past the tree line. Within a few steps, the forest grew inexplicably dark, despite the sun blazing overhead. Grey peered up through the branches, not understanding. It was like an invisible sponge over the canopy was sucking in the rays of light.
A shiver ran down Grey’s spine.
“Do you hear that?” Rune whispered.
He did. Over the rustle of branches and the chirps and titters of both insects and birds, the faint lilt of foreign music tickled Grey’s ears. It was intoxicating, even at such a low decibel. It seemed to move and coalesce inside him, calling him towards the source. He knew enough about fae music to be grateful it was faint. The desire was there, but manageable—he had no wish to dance until his feet were nubs and he’d lost the will to live.
The deeper they moved into the forest, the stranger things became. Rocks rolled into their path on their own accord. The wildlife became strange and malformed—like a band of children’s toys torn apart and reassembled. Birds with the legs of a monkey, woodpeckers with saws for beaks, an owl with glowing red eyes like two marbles. Branches seemed to purposefully rip at his clothes, and he finally took his trench coat off after it had caught on every bush and tree he passed.
A small man, the size of a garden gnome statue with a receding hairline and a rotund belly, darted across the path, hissing at Tate. In response, Tate pulled a knife and hissed back. The little man scuttled away, disappearing as fast as he’d appeared.