William and the Forum Master had barely escaped the clutches of the thieves' ambush, but they were in dire condition. Their bodies ached, their strength depleted to the very last drop. Both of them were hanging on by sheer willpower. The magic warhorses, usually symbols of power and resilience, were now shadows of their former selves, exhausted, wounded, and bleeding from countless cuts and arrows embedded deep into their flesh.
They had fled to a hilly region, hoping the uneven terrain would slow their pursuers, but now the toll of the battle was impossible to ignore. The horses, loyal and brave, had given everything they had. As William dismounted, he could see his warhorse struggling to even breathe. Its sides heaved, arrows still lodged in its hide, and patches of its coat were stained with drying blood. It couldn't go on.
