The Shadow Glade was behind us, its oppressive tendrils of darkness no longer clawing at our resolve. Yet, as the caravan trudged forward, the air remained heavy, filled not with the miasma of the Corruption but with the stifling tension of human uncertainty. The refugees walked in weary silence, their faces pale from hunger, fear, and exhaustion.
Despite the victory over the Corrupted Forest Sentinels, the relief we had hoped for was fleeting. Supplies were dwindling, and the land ahead promised no respite. Every step forward felt like a gamble, as if we were crossing a tightrope over a chasm, where the faintest misstep could send us tumbling into despair.
I clutched the Heartseed, its light dim yet resolute, a faint beacon amidst the gloom. The artifact pulsed faintly against my chest, a reminder of our purpose—and the weight of what lay ahead.