We're about to call it quits and find a spot to camp when something pings the edge of my magical radar.
Of course, I want to go straight there and purify it. But we still have to put up the tent, start a fire, and make dinner, and it's over a mile away.
It's one thing to make myself suffer; it's another to force the others to set up camp in the dark because I want to push our timeline.
The sled slows to a gradual stop, runners creaking against packed snow. That pulse of dark energy beckons, but the practical part of my brain overrides it. Night comes early, and I can always get to it in the morning.
Wiggling out from under the mass of blankets keeping me warm during our run—which has spanned a much larger area than we normally would, with how little corruption we've run into—I grab the flat pack I'd been sitting on for hours.
Vanessa's already unhooked the wolves from the sled, and they shift right there in the snow.
