He woke to the choking blackness of the pre-dawn hours.
The previous night, he had already saddled his horse and meticulously readied every scrap of leather and iron needed for the trail. Everything was perfectly arranged for a ghost's departure. No one to bid him goodbye, nor one he could give farewell too.
It felt wrong. But somehow he knew it was right.
Vilon waved his hands through the dark air of the small guest room, searching blindly until his knuckles brushed against the stiff leather of his riding boots, right at the base of the frame where he had left them.
He pulled them on. That was all. Nothing else.
He was ready.
He stood at the threshold of the cottage door, looking back into the quiet, sleeping house. He was looking back at a life that could have easily been his, but never truly was. A life of loving brothers and sisters, a fiercely caring mother, and a warm, steady roof over his head.
