The wind blew cold through the trees as Damon followed Caerth along the trail.
The forest north of the mansion was ancient, almost primeval—the kind of place where sunlight entered in fragments, and the silence weighed heavier than sound.
The ground was covered with damp leaves, and each step produced a muffled crunch. There was the smell of moss, earth, and something else—something metallic, like dried blood. Damon held his new sword firmly. He still hadn't gotten used to the weight of real steel.
Caerth walked ahead, silent as always. His dark cloak moved in the wind, and Damon noticed that, even there, among roots and shadows, the man walked with an almost predatory confidence—as if the forest were merely an extension of his own body.
"Where exactly are we going?" Damon asked after a while, his voice breaking the oppressive silence.
