the angels hidden blade

ELEVEN

The incident, like a phantom, lingered in the air between them, unspoken and buried in the folds of the passing days. 

As they rode, Nefeli slumped in the saddle, her body still weakened by the recent bout with the fever. 

Her muscles ached, a constant reminder of the ordeal, yet the details remained elusive in the fog of her memory.

Fenrir carried her with a steady gait, a silent companion in their journey. 

The reins were clasped in her hand, fingers brushing against the sturdy warmth of his neck. 

It would take time for her strength to fully return, but the knowledge that she had a respite, a few months before facing the agonizing pain again, brought a quiet comfort.

They rode side by side the last couple of days but still did not talk.

The landscape unfolds around them in a rhythmic dance of passing scenery. 

Fenrir's presence was a steadying force, and she found solace in the shared silence. 

The splashing water stirred Nefeli from her slumber, her eyes snapping open with immediate alertness. 

The distinctive sound cut through the quiet and the grogginess that clung to her mind quickly dissipated as she recognized the telltale signs of trouble.

Despite the persistent ache in her body, she leaned into Fenrir's saddle, the familiarity of the action grounding her in uncertainty. 

The world around her seemed to come alive with the urgency of the moment, and with a determined focus, she scanned the surroundings. 

Geralt was standing in the heart of a murky bog, the air heavy with the earthy scent of decay. 

The ground beneath his boots squelched with each step, a mixture of mud and decaying vegetation. 

The murky water, tinted with an unhealthy shade of green, rippled as unseen creatures lurked beneath the surface.

The gnarled branches of skeletal trees stretched towards the overcast sky, their twisted forms casting long, eerie shadows. 

The air was thick with a damp chill, and a haunting stillness hung over the bog like a shroud.

Nefeli, perched atop Fenrir, wrinkled her nose in disgust, her expression mirroring the disdainful snort of the massive black horse beneath her.

Fenrir, displeased by the unsavoury terrain, stamped a mud-covered hoof in protest, sending a spray of muck across his legs. 

The bog seemed to resist their intrusion, challenging them with its gloomy atmosphere and treacherous footing. 

Yet, Geralt stood unfazed, his senses attuned to the subtle signs of danger lurking in the murky depths.

"Easy there, Fen," Nefeli murmured, her voice a soothing cadence as she reached down to pat the horse's neck reassuringly. 

Fenrir, still unsettled by the muck beneath, responded to her touch with a flicker of calm, his massive frame temporarily eased by her presence.

Her attention then shifted back to Geralt. 

His silver hair caught the pale light filtering through the dense canopy of trees, creating an ethereal gleam. 

His piercing golden eyes, akin to those of a vigilant wolf, scanned the area with an intensity that spoke of years of honed instincts.