The biting rain lashed down, turning the forest floor into a treacherous mire. Thomas, his face grim, urged his weary companions onward. "We can't wait any longer here! Tyndale might have already recovered, and it will only be a matter of time before he catches on to us. We need to start moving right away!"

A chorus of agreement, or perhaps just resigned silence, met his words. Freedom, they had it, but at what cost? No one dared to voice the question aloud. They left behind friends, family, and the faint, haunting cries of those who hadn't made it. Lora and Jrue were nowhere to be seen, their injured forms swallowed by the chaos of the escape. A cold, hard knot of resentment twisted in Thomas's gut; five years of mistreatment were not easily forgotten, even for those he had helped.

"Okay, let's move. The rain will help cover our tracks, so we better make haste and utilize it." And so began their exodus, a muddy, cold, and wet journey across the woods—a plight for freedom and safety. The mysterious savior, Anato Strider, was nowhere to be seen, leaving them to wonder about the true price of their liberation. The only certainty was the endless, dark woods ahead, promising only uncertainty.