Dylan was healing slowly, but surely. The stigma was doing its work, repairing muscles and bones with painful precision. Yet every step was still a struggle, and every breath a reminder of the bite of those fangs. But his breath was returning—along with clarity. The feverish haze had faded. His legs held better, and his gaze was steady once more.
The group didn't ask for more than that.
They moved now in a calculated silence—not just for stealth, but by choice. Words wore you down, and weariness could kill. In these mountains, every slope was as dangerous as the beasts that roamed them. Talking too much was an invitation for death.
Their strategy was clear: avoid confrontation. They weren't reckless anymore.
The forest had taught them well—and still was. That fight with the cursed black macaques had driven the lesson home.
They had learned something crucial: they were strong enough to survive now… but that didn't mean they had to prove anything to anyone.
