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Chapter 5: The life of the flesh in blood

As the sun sank below the horizon, a black curtain of dusk descended upon the land. The stars were shrouded by a thick layer of clouds, rendering the night an abysmal pit. Mirranda and Samson led Mmuz and Syperion, trudging along an uneven trail toward Seaside Alchov. Mirranda embraced Timothy in all of her arms, a protective shield against the biting night wind. Despite the harsh conditions, his mother's love enveloped the Saphiid like a blanket.

"Keep your senses sharp," Samson spoke, his eyes gleaming in the scant moonlight. His stern voice was laced with tension and his elven ears twitched. Samson's hand rested on the hilt of his blade. He sensed someone close by, someone watching.

The quiet was shattered by a cacophony of guttural snarls and the rustle of movement cloaked in shadow. Dark figures burst from a bushel of brambles; their movements sporadic.

Samson grunted, drawing his scimitar in one fluid motion. The metal sang against the breeze. Each slain specter immediately reanimated and rose, relentlessly moving in fierce motion. Darklings cloaked by nightfall had descended upon the group.

As they fought, the realization settled in—this was a fight they could not win.

The battle raged on, and the creature's true intentions became clear. This was no mere ambush; it was a meticulously orchestrated trap designed to ensnare them. They weren't basic Darklings, but highway bandits. The creatures had done this before. "Form a circle!" Samson called out.

"Timothy, left flank!" Mirranda's command cut through the din as she leaped into the fray, her agility allowing her to dance between foes, dealing deadly strikes with her legs that weren't deadly enough.

Timothy grunted; his quick, swift fighting skills born of Saphiid physiology in full force.

"Mirranda, watch out!" Samson shouted, intercepting and blocking a Darkling's strike against her.

"Thanks, love," she breathed, her mind racing as she searched for an opening, a weakness in their enemy. There was none.

"Curse these vermin," Syperion growled, swinging his arms in broad, crushing arcs. Yet even a Glenoid's strength seemed feeble against the marauders.

"Stand down, or your deaths won't be so quick," one Darkling hissed, his voice hollow like a dry bone.

"Over my dead body." Mirranda spat.

"Exactly," the Darkling replied, an insidious smile curling its lips.

The Darklings circled the captives with languid, predatory grace and were able to shackle the group together. They led the bound band through twisted underbrush, where shadows writhed. The path unraveled before them, leading ever downward into the bowels of a grotto.

"Fresh blood is rare treat, no?" one hissed, its red eyes glowing. "Spiderling blood is potent and most especially rare."

Another Darkling, broader and more imposing, drew closer to Samson, his nostrils flaring. "The elvenkind, though. He would have the blood of a warrior's vitality pumping through his veins. It would be a waste not to consume him."

"What about the Saphiid boy? I smell its youth. The taste would be like a shredded veil."

Mirranda's breath caught, a tightness coiling in her chest. She bared her sharp, dripping teeth. Samson's jaw clenched as he fought to restrain his fury.

"Hear us well, meat. you are not prisoners. You are livestock awaiting slaughter."

The Darklings murmured amongst themselves, their hunger piqued. Mirranda exchanged a glance with Samson, her mind reeling. 'How would we escape?' She thought.

As Mirranda, Samson, Timothy, MMuz, and Syperion were led to cages made of rock, a sense of dread chilled them. They were trapped, far from any known path. The grotto was devoid of light save for the faint glow of the Darkling's wicked eyes, piercing through the relentless dank of the cavernous alcove.