The Silver Hell stretched before them, a bleak, bright desert that had claimed untold lives over the centuries. Anarok did not care. She could not afford to care.
Behind her, she heard the baying of the moldhounds. It was a wet, terrifying sound. Anarok imagined she could smell them on the still air, the wet stink of their hybrid bodies. If they caught her, she knew she would be subjected to a slow, painful death.
But, and she turned back to the Silver Hell, if she tried to cross that landscape there was a chance - an infintesimal chance - that she might survive.
At the very least, she would live longer than she would in the hand of the moldhounds' master.
Her mind set, Anarok drew a breath and placed a sandaled foot on the shimmering silver sand.
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