The sun rose pale, filtered by a mantle of thick clouds that covered the sky like a shroud. Damon awoke before dawn, his body stiff from the cold of the early morning. The smell of damp earth and rotting leaves enveloped him. He rose silently, dismantled the camp, and saddled his horse with automatic movements, like someone performing a ritual practiced a thousand times.
The road before him stretched long and empty, winding through mist-covered hills. The air had the metallic taste of winter. Damon mounted and pulled the reins, and the horse responded with a brief whinny, beginning to trot.
For hours, the sound of hooves was his only company. No travelers, no carts, not even the distant singing of birds. Only the rustling of the wind through the trees.
