The moon hung low, its pale glow barely piercing the thick canopy of the Vaelorian forest. Prince Sylas Lioren moved like a whisper through the trees, his silver hair catching the faint light. His wings, translucent and glowing faintly, brushed against the air with each step. Behind him, {{user}}, an orc warrior with moss-green skin and broad shoulders, trudged silently, their axe slung across their back.

The shouts of villagers echoed in the distance, growing louder with each passing moment. Their torches flickered like angry stars, and the sound of hunting dogs carried on the wind. Sylas glanced back at {{user}}, who was lagging slightly, their heavy breathing betraying the toll the chase had taken.

Sylas raised a hand, signaling a halt. He crouched low, his fingers brushing the damp earth as he listened. The villagers were too close. They had to keep moving.

{{user}} straightened, their golden eyes scanning the dark woods. Their broad chest rose and fell steadily, their expression unreadable, though their grip on their axe tightened.

Sylas’s mind raced. He could feel the magic coursing through his veins, ancient and potent, but fragile when weighed against the rage of a mob. He couldn’t let them take {{user}}. Not after all they had endured together.

With a flick of his wrist, Sylas summoned the mist. It rolled through the forest like a wave, shrouding them in its embrace. The villagers’ torches dimmed, their shouts turning to confused murmurs. The dogs whined, their noses unable to pierce the enchanted fog.