Five feet. Ten feet. Fifteen feet. Ignis was slowly dragging Gladio along, but even the rough treatment wasn't waking him. Something was terribly wrong, as if earlier hadn't proven that, but from the paleness of his lips specially set against the dried blood on them to his unconsciousness, Gladio couldn't have been too far from the edge of something even worse.

When Ignis was closing in on the haven, exhausted and hurting and leaving a slight blood trail on the ground (from himself, from Gladio, who knew), that was when the first howl happened. No ichor bubbling up from the ground, which meant most likely something not daemon - voretooth. Ignis still had at least another fifty feet to go.