Through the thick mist and the myriad of branches, a clutch of figures looms out from the gloom...
"This way," Asocrates calls in a panicked tone, cantering back around on his horse to round us both up, as though he feared he might have lost us in the thick gloom of the forest. Though mostly likely he was concerned for losing something else in that moment, something a little more important than losing two people temporarily in the darkness of the eternal starlight.
Grimacing, I duck my head low into the mane of the horse to hide the darkness of my expression.
If he doesn't manage to show us both evidence of the soul's existence, Asocrates is going to lose his life. And no matter how greatly I would rather Azrael didn't murder him in cold blood, there is simply nothing I can do about it. If Azrael wants Asocrates to die, it will happen.
