more.
The dry grasses rustled against one another, whispering as though the place itself were murmuring memories of the past.
Zaber opened his eyes.
Larden already stood several paces away. The old man's hands were clasped behind his back, his breathing calm, yet his gaze—sharp. He was not looking at Zaber, but rather through him, as though staring into the emptiness beyond.
"Do you understand now?" he asked quietly.
There was no answer.
Zaber did not rise.
Something inside him had settled into place.
The chain. And the darkness.
None of this was coincidence.
"This world…" Zaber said at last. His voice was low, yet firm. "I finally understood—it owes me."
The corner of Larden's mouth twitched. It was not a smile. Nor was it pity.
"Do not concern yourself with what you can take from the world," he said. "Concern yourself with what you will not give up. On this path, boy, you must not be strong—you must be dangerous."
Zaber looked down at his hands.
