The sun was already rising when Damon finally reached the mansion gate.
Each step seemed to drag the weight of a mountain—his body covered in superficial cuts, scratches, and dried bloodstains mixed with mud. The cold still clung to him, trapped beneath his skin, as if the ice of the forest had fused with him.
The guards saw him approaching and silently made way. None dared to comment on his condition. Damon's gaze was distant, fixed on the stone ground.
The sound of his boots echoed irregularly until, upon reaching the steps of the main entrance, his strength simply abandoned him.
He let himself fall, sitting on the first stone step, his sword resting between his legs.
He breathed deeply, each movement causing his muscles to protest.
The morning air was light and warm, but to him everything felt cold. His hands trembled slightly, still numb from the mana discharge he had used.
He stayed there for long seconds, watching the vapor of his own breath disappear before his eyes.
