Atticus's form blazed through the forest at full speed. He still appeared like a blur, deftly moving and evading the trees and other obstacles in the forest.
If one wanted the absolute truth, Atticus had absolutely no idea where he was going, nor did Aurora, who was behind him.
He only knew one thing, and this was exactly the same thing that kept playing in his head, constantly and constantly: he had to keep running.
The veins on Atticus's head throbbed with such force it seemed as though they would burst out at any second. Atticus kept repeating those words, his clenched hands dripping with crimson blood as he tried his very best to stay lucid.
Aurora's gaze was fixated behind them, oblivious to Atticus's predicament, trying to see if there was anyone following them. Words could not begin to describe how glad she felt when she saw that they had lost their pursuers. But despite that, she still kept her gaze fixated behind.
