The oppressive mire of the fens eventually gave way to firmer ground, though the landscape remained bleak. They now walked beneath the shadowed canopy of a forest equally touched by the Blight. Twisted oaks and ancient yews stood like skeletal sentinels, their leaves withered or replaced by sickly, grey fungus. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick, diseased foliage, casting the path ahead in perpetual twilight. The air, while less stagnant than the fen's, still carried the underlying scent of decay.

  Edmund moved with his usual quiet confidence, his eyes scanning their surroundings, yet his posture lacked the tension Isolde felt coiled in her own gut. He hummed a tuneless melody, something remembered from his agrarian upbringing, a small, almost defiant act of normalcy in this ruined world.

  "Must you sound so… untroubled?" Isolde muttered, pulling her worn cloak tighter around her shoulders. "Every shadow could hide a Grendel-Kin, every rustle a Blighted Nicor dragging itself from some unseen pool. This forest is dying, Edmund, just like the fens."

  Edmund glanced back, his expression kind but firm. "And dwelling on the darkness won't bring back the light, Ms. Isa. We keep moving, we stay watchful, and we trust we can handle what comes." That unwavering trust of his—sometimes it was a comfort, other times, like now, it felt dangerously naive.

  "Trust is a luxury," Isolde retorted, her gaze sweeping the gnarled roots beside the path. "Vigilance is a necessity. And my magic… it feels weaker here." She frowned, concentrating on the corrupted Living Essence around them. "The trees resist. They mourn what they've lost. Drawing power is like pulling teeth." It was true; her nature-based abilities, so potent in purer lands, struggled against the pervasive corruption.

  As if summoned by her words, a low growl echoed through the trees. From the dense undergrowth emerged several canine forms, but horribly warped. Blighted wolves. Their fur was patchy and matted, revealing sections of decaying flesh and exposed bone. Their eyes glowed with the same malevolent red light as the Blighted Orcneas, and saliva thick with unnatural ichor dripped from their jaws. They moved with a predatory hunger that transcended natural instinct, driven solely by the Blight’s need to consume.

  "Wolves," Edmund stated calmly, drawing his sword. The blade remained unlit for now, saving Isolde's strength.

  Isolde reacted instantly, raising her staff—a sturdy length of rowan wood, one of the few woods resilient to the Blight’s touch. Muttering words of binding, she slammed the staff's butt onto the ground. A faint green energy pulsed outwards, causing the corrupted roots near the wolves to writhe and twist, attempting to ensnare their legs. It wasn't strong enough to hold them for long, but it was enough to momentarily disrupt their charge.

  Edmund didn't need more. He met the first wolf head-on, his sword a blur of steel. He moved with the practical efficiency of someone who had fought for survival countless times, parrying snapping jaws and landing precise, disabling blows. Isolde provided support, firing small bolts of crackling green energy from her staff, aiming for eyes or weak points, forcing the wolves to divide their attention.

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  The fight was short and brutal. Two wolves fell quickly to Edmund's blade, while Isolde managed to shatter the leg of a third with a focused blast, leaving it vulnerable for Edmund to finish. The last one, perhaps sensing its packmates' demise, turned and fled back into the oppressive shadows.

  They paused, catching their breath. Further along the path, half-hidden by overgrown, blighted thorns, lay the collapsed stone remnants of a small cottage. A broken hearth, a scattering of weathered stones—ghosts of a life extinguished by the Blight, a grim reminder of the world's state.

  They travelled for another hour, the oppressive silence of the forest weighing heavily upon them. As the trees began to thin, hinting at the edge of the woods, they heard voices ahead—strained, fearful voices. Rounding a bend, they saw them: a small group of perhaps half a dozen travelers huddled together. They were gaunt, their clothes ragged, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear.

  One of them, a woman clutching a small, whimpering child, looked up as Edmund and Isolde approached, her eyes wide with alarm before settling into weary resignation. "More trying for Blackfen?" she asked, her voice raspy.

  Edmund nodded, his expression softening with empathy. "We are. We heard it was… holding out."

  A man leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch shook his head, his face grim. "Holding out, aye, but turning away its own. We just came from there." He gestured vaguely back the way they'd come, though not towards the path. "Fled a Blight nest near the old mill. Thought we'd find safety in Blackfen."

  "They wouldn't let you in?" Edmund asked, his brow furrowing.

  "The gates are barred," the woman explained, pulling her child closer. "There's… a situation. Another group arrived just before us, begging for entry. Said they lost people in the fens. The villagers… they're terrified. Won't open the gates for anyone right now. It's chaos. Shouting. Pleading."

  Isolde exchanged a look with Edmund. A standoff. Fear versus desperation. Exactly the kind of volatile situation where the Blight—and worse—could thrive.

  Thanking the weary travelers and wishing them safe passage, though knowing safety was a forgotten concept, Edmund and Isolde pressed on. The edge of the forest gave way to cleared land, unnaturally still and quiet. Ahead, nestled in a dip in the terrain, surrounded by a hastily erected but sturdy-looking wooden palisade, was Blackfen Village.

  And just as the travelers had described, the scene at the main gate was one of tense desperation. A cluster of perhaps ten ragged individuals stood outside the barred entrance, their voices raised in desperate pleas. One man hammered futilely on the thick wood, while a woman sobbed, holding up a small bundle that might have been an infant. On the ramparts above, silhouetted against the bruised sky, stood several figures armed with crossbows and spears, their faces grim masks of fear.

  "Let us in! For pity's sake!" cried the man pounding on the gate.

  "We can't risk it! Stay back!" came a strained shout from the wall.

  Edmund’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, not in aggression, but in troubled uncertainty. Isolde watched, her expression guarded, sensing the raw fear radiating from both sides of the wall. Here, on the doorstep of their destination, they were immediately confronted with the harsh realities of this blighted world—a village clinging to survival, forced into impossible choices, and desperate souls caught between the horrors without and the fear within.