Volgograd (21)

Night was as black as ink, with dark clouds blotting out the moonlight and plunging the camp into deep darkness.

Only the enchanted runes on the night-watch Flame Swordsmen flickered faintly, blinking in the darkness like fireflies.

They leaned against their mounts beside the campfires, their eyelids drooping and their breathing so even it was almost inaudible.

The scenery along the way had been utterly monotonous—barren hills, withered grass, and low shrubs stretching as far as the eye could see. Many had long since let their guard down.

Their initial vigilance had been diluted by the peace of finding no ambushes along the road.

Dana leaned against a rock not far from Ang, letting out soft snores.

Ang, meanwhile, hovered between sleep and wakefulness. Every now and then, he heard a faint rustling by his ear, there and gone.

His brow furrowed. At first, he assumed it was moles or snakes and insects turning over the soil at night, but then his heart suddenly tightened.

He quickly realized that his senses were nowhere near sharp enough to hear tiny bugs underground—if he could notice it, then it was anything but ordinary.

He did not wake anyone. He merely slipped quietly out of his sleeping bag and pressed himself flat against the ground.

His right hand brushed his waist. A silver magical sigil lit up in his palm, followed by a low chant spilling from his throat.

"Fog Spell."

Silver light flashed, and thick fog rapidly spread from beneath his feet. Before long, the entire camp was shrouded in white mist, reducing visibility to less than two meters.

The fog drifted with the wind, making the already pitch-black camp resemble the depths of the underworld.

At the same time, five hundred meters from the camp, the lizardmen crawled silently along the