Twisting, winding pathways.
No, was there even anything like that?!
Didn't twisting, winding pathways at least have some semblance of direction?!
It became clear that Bertram didn't have anything like a set path he trusted once they began moving. His steps had no order, and the groups he led found themselves running so randomly they could've sworn they were just going in circles!
But Bertram's expression didn't relax in the slightest as he pushed forward. The undead horde faded into a blurry fog, the roars of battle became nothing more than a whisper, and every single pit of his attention honed in on the ethereal path that was forming itself in his eyes.
There was a question he always asked himself.
Why did he consider himself the perfect guide when he hadn't established a trusty route?
