The wind no longer smelled of ash.
It smelled of pine. Of dirt. Of late summer rot curling into autumn.
Thane walked without a destination—his boots carrying him through the forest beyond his ruined village. He didn't look back. There was nothing to return to. Nothing to mourn.
He hadn't slept since the goblins died.
He hadn't needed to.
The fire inside him simmered low now, no longer hungry, just waiting.
He let it.
The trees were taller here.
The underbrush thicker. Brambles clung to his coat and snapped behind him. The birds did not sing. Whatever wildlife still lived in these woods kept to the shadows, watching the human boy who walked like a ghost of something long buried.
Hours passed.
Maybe more.
His mana recovered slowly—too slowly for anything beyond basic casting. He didn't use it. He didn't need it.
Not yet.
By the time he reached the road, the sun was near its peak—shimmering between breaks in the canopy.
It wasn't much of a road. Just a long, packed dirt path cutting east and west, lined with old wagon tracks and dried mud ruts. It felt older than anything he'd seen in the dungeon. More real. More worn.
He stood at the fork.
Right or left.
He didn't hesitate.
He turned right.
And started walking.
The merchant came around midday.
A slow-moving cart pulled by two battered gray horses rolled into view ahead. The man driving it wore a wide-brimmed hat and a coat patched in three places. He looked up from beneath the brim when he spotted Thane walking the opposite direction, his eyes narrowing with suspicion—but not malice.
Thane stepped to the side of the road.
He didn't speak.
Didn't wave.
The cart slowed anyway.
The merchant stopped just short of him, tilting his head to get a better look.
"…You look like death's apprentice."
Thane blinked.
"I suppose I do."
The man grunted.
"Where're you headed?"
"I don't know."
"Hm."
Silence.
Then:
"Well. You'll need a destination sooner or later. This road leads to Halcyra. You heard of it?"
Thane shook his head.
"Capital of Aetherra," the man said. "Big place. Ugly nobles. Expensive ale. They've got guilds, walls, libraries. You want work or a warm bed, that's the place to go."
Thane said nothing.
The merchant scratched his beard.
"You alone?"
"Yes."
"No family?"
"No one left."
The man looked at him a while longer. Then nodded slowly.
"Well. I'm Darrin Holt. I sell spices, cloth, and half the useful junk nobody in Halcyra appreciates until winter sets in. Got room in the back."
He jerked his thumb toward the wagon.
Thane looked at it.
Sacks of grain. Crates tied in rope. Two seats on either side.
He nodded.
"Alright."
He climbed up into the wagon and sat.
Darrin didn't ask any more questions.
And Thane didn't offer answers.
They rode in silence for an hour before Darrin finally spoke again.
"You got that look."
Thane glanced at him.
"What look?"
"The kind of look men get when they've killed more than one thing and ain't told anyone yet."
Thane didn't reply.
Darrin grunted.
"Don't matter. Just don't stab me in my sleep, and we'll get along fine."
That night, they made camp just off the side of the road. Darrin started a small fire with some flint and a box of dried tinder. Thane watched without moving, the heat of the flames brushing his skin like a whisper from the Archive.
He almost didn't notice how quiet the woods had become.
Until he heard the crunch of a footfall behind the trees.
Not human.
A low snarl followed the footstep.
Then another.
Darrin stiffened.
"Wolves?"
"No," Thane said, already rising.
He walked calmly toward the edge of the firelight, his eyes scanning the dark beyond the trees.
A sharp breath. A flicker of yellow eyes.
And then—movement.
A hunched figure burst from the brush, low to the ground, long arms trailing behind it. Its skin was mottled green. Its mouth too wide. Its blade was jagged, curved, notched with rot.
A goblin.
But not alone.
Two more followed—one with a crossbow, the other dragging a net made of sinew and thorn vine.
Thane's voice was calm.
"Three of them. All small. Reckless."
Darrin had already drawn a short dagger from his boot.
"I've got one."
"No," Thane said.
"I've got them."
The goblins charged.
The first lunged straight at him.
Thane lifted a hand.
Firebolt.
It struck the creature in the throat before it ever made a sound. It fell backward, its flesh already blistering.
The second screamed and fired its crossbow.
Thane sidestepped.
The bolt clipped his shoulder—enough to cut.
Enough to bleed.
He didn't flinch.
He cast Flame Arc, wide and fast.
The blast caught both of the remaining goblins. The one with the net shrieked, stumbled, caught fire, and thrashed against a tree.
The other tried to run.
Burning Chain.
The spell coiled around its chest and pulled it backward—right into the firepit Darrin had built.
It didn't come out.
Silence returned.
Darrin lowered his blade.
"Shit," he muttered. "Thought they only came this close to the capital during wartime."
Thane crouched and wiped the blood from his sleeve.
"They came from the south. Same direction I did."
Darrin glanced at the corpses, then back to him.
"What happened to your village?"
Thane didn't look up.
"They burned it. Took the women. Put the men on spikes."
Darrin let out a slow breath.
He didn't ask anything else.
Instead, he tossed Thane a cloth strip from a supply box on the cart.
"Patch that shoulder. You're gonna need both arms where we're headed."
The next morning, they passed the first merchant caravan heading west—three wagons, armored guards, and a man in robes shouting about taxes on the main road.
Thane kept his head low and his hood up.
But one of the guards still stared at him as they passed—like they felt something wrong in the air around him.
Darrin leaned over the reins.
"We'll reach Halcyra by nightfall tomorrow," he said. "We'll find you a cloak, a meal, maybe a bath. You've got the look of someone who doesn't know what peace feels like anymore."
Thane didn't reply.
He was watching the trees again.
Thinking of flames.
Thinking of Meteor.