The mist of Mirath was slowly dissipating when Damon crossed the gates of the domain.

The wind cut his face like a thin blade, and the damp smell of the earth announced the beginning of the long road that would take him to Arven. Behind him, the towers of Mirath diminished until they became gray silhouettes against the horizon.

For hours, the sound of hooves was his only companion. The stone path gave way to beaten earth, and the cold increased as the altitude rose. Dense forests rose on both sides of the trail—twisted trunks and moss-covered branches formed tunnels of shadow and silence.

The first night fell quickly.

Damon made camp under an ancient tree, where the ground was dry enough for a fire. The horse grazed nearby, peacefully, while he examined the rolled-up map that Elizabeth had given him.

From Mirath to Arven, it would be a five-day journey if the weather remained fair. But nothing in that region was usually predictable.

The crackling of the firewood made him look away. The flames flickered, reflecting in the metal of the bracelet on his wrist.

He raised it, observing the faint glow of the glyphs.

The enchantment was stable.

For now.

The sound of footsteps in the bushes immediately shifted his attention.

Damon turned suddenly—the sword came out of its sheath in a single movement. Branches cracked, and two silhouettes emerged from the gloom: wolves. Larger than normal, with yellow eyes and fangs gleaming in the faint light of the fire.

He rose slowly. The wind carried the metallic smell of their saliva, and something inside him—something instinctive, primal—stirred, begging to be released.

Damon restrained it. He took a deep breath.

Caerth had taught him: control is power.

The first wolf advanced.

Damon dodged to the side, striking horizontally. The blade cut through the air, striking the creature's flank and making it recoil with a sharp howl. The second one followed immediately, faster. Damon raised his sword, blocked the impact, and pushed it away with his shoulder, using the weight of his own body.

The next blow was clean and precise—a diagonal cut that opened a space between them. The animal fell, the other hesitated.

Damon rotated his wrist, the metal still vibrating. The fire reflected in his eyes, and for an instant the gleam of his iris changed, taking on a silvery hue. The cold energy within him threatened to break free, but he suppressed it again.

Not here. Not yet.

The second wolf fled. Damon cleaned his sword, breathing calmly.

The night continued in silence.

The second day brought rain.

Thick curtains of water fell from dawn, transforming the road into mud. The horse advanced slowly, its hooves sinking into the slippery ground. Damon kept his hood low, his eyes attentive to the path ahead.

The rain erased tracks and sounds—good for those who wanted to go unnoticed, terrible for those who needed to find their way.

In the middle of the afternoon, he spotted something: the remains of an overturned cart at the side of the road. Broken wheels, splintered wood.

He dismounted.

Claw marks on the ground. Dried blood, scattered in irregular drops.

Damon knelt, touched the ground.

"Three... maybe four of them," he murmured to himself.

Monsters? Bandits? The difference, in those lands, was sometimes minimal.

The sky darkened earlier that night. He went to a nearby hill, where he took shelter among the rocks.

As he took off his wet cloak, he heard the roar in the distance.

It wasn't a wolf.

It was something bigger.

The sound repeated itself, coming from below, from the mist-covered plains. Damon held his breath. The horse reared, restless.

Then he saw it—a huge shadow moving among the trees. Four legs, muscular body, eyes glowing red. A mist bear.

Caerth had spoken of them—creatures altered by the raw mana of the ancient forests. Uncanny strength, thick hide, heightened senses. One could destroy a wagon... or a careless knight.

Damon tightened his grip on his sword, slowly approaching. The animal raised its head, sniffing the air.

The gleam of the bracelet flashed.

Damn it.

The beast roared and charged.

The impact of the first blow almost knocked him to the ground. Damon twisted his body, using the force of the movement to cushion the attack and cut upwards. The blade slid, but the creature's hide was hard as stone.

It charged again, knocking down a tree in the process. Damon jumped to the side, rolled, and got up, his chest heaving. The rain made the ground treacherous.

He needed to think—he couldn't just react.

The bear attacked again. Damon narrowly dodged and plunged his sword into the monster's flank, pushing with the weight of his entire body. The roar that followed was deafening. The creature struck him with its paw, throwing him against a rock.

The impact knocked the wind out of him.

The pain came in waves.

Damon propped himself up, coughing, and looked at his enemy. Blood—dark and thick—flowed from the open wound, but the monster was still moving.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Channel, don't release. Caerth's words echoed in his mind.

When he opened his eyes, the air around him trembled.

The ground froze beneath his feet. Fragments of ice rose, forming translucent blades. Damon advanced, and with a single blow channeled the mana through the sword.

The cut went through the bear's chest like a blue lightning bolt.

The creature fell.

Silence returned.

Damon breathed heavily, his right arm tingling. The air still smelled of ozone and pure mana. He cleaned his sword, taking two steps back before sitting down on a rock.

The bracelet was dark—the glyphs flickered, unstable.

He looked at it and murmured:

"Don't betray me now."

The rain stopped around dawn. When the sun rose on the horizon, the creature's body had already begun to dissolve—as if the world itself rejected its presence. Damon watched in silence, then saddled his horse and resumed his journey.

The third day brought the wind.

Cold, constant, biting.

The sky was clear, but it felt as if every gust came directly from the northern mountains.

The road narrowed, winding between cliffs and forests. Damon remained alert—his hand always close to his sword. The marks of the previous fight still bothered him, but his mind remained firm.

As dusk fell, he spotted smoke in the distance. A small village, perhaps a travelers' outpost.

His stomach rumbled, and he decided to stop.

The houses were simple, made of stone and darkened wood. The sound of hammers and the smell of hot iron came from a nearby forge. As he passed, Damon noticed the suspicious glances—peasants who knew how to recognize when someone didn't belong there.

He tethered his horse in front of the inn and went inside.

The interior was modest: oak tables, a lit fireplace, and half a dozen travelers. The innkeeper observed him, assessing his cloak, his sword, and the discreet emblem of the Northern Archive.

"Food and shelter?" the man asked.

"For one night."

The innkeeper nodded and disappeared behind the counter. Damon chose a corner near the fireplace and sat down. The warmth was welcome. While he waited, his eyes scanned the room—tired faces, road-weary men, an armed merchant or two.

But it was the group near the window that caught his attention.

Three figures. Dark cloaks, bronze badges. Licensed hunters.

And one of them was discreetly watching him.

Damon looked away, pretending not to notice, but kept his hand close to the hilt of his sword.

The bracelet on his wrist emitted a faint glow, like an unsettling reminder.

The fireplace crackled softly, sending sparks into the heavy air of the tavern. Damon pretended to eat, his eyes fixed on his plate, but every sense alert to the slightest movement. The hunters didn't speak—they only exchanged occasional glances. The one in the middle, the one who was watching him, had the look of someone who measured distances and weights: cold, calculated.

When he finished his meal, Damon left the coins on the table and stood up. The air outside was freezing, and the wind carried the smell of smoke and burnt iron.

He headed towards the stable. The horse whinnied softly, impatiently, as if sensing something.

Behind him, footsteps.

"It's usually not wise to travel alone on these roads," a deep voice said, breaking the silence.

Damon didn't turn around. "I don't usually ask for company."

The sound of boots approaching on the gravel made him subtly tighten his grip on the sword hilt.

The man stopped a few steps away—it was one of the hunters from the tavern. His lowered hood revealed a young face, but marked by the cold and by steel.

"Strange," he continued. "The mana near you is... agitated. As if trying to escape."

Damon stared at him in silence.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do." The hunter tilted his head, a slight smile forming. "I've heard stories about hybrids escaping from the southern lands. Creatures that use enchantments to appear human. You wouldn't be one of them, would you?"

For an instant, the air seemed to grow heavier. The wind ceased.

Damon took a step to the side—subtle, enough to gain space between the horse and the man.

"If I were," he replied, "you wouldn't be talking anymore."

The hunter's smile vanished.

The blade at his waist slid half an inch out of its sheath.

That was enough.

Damon moved before he finished the gesture. The sword flashed out, the metallic sound cutting through the air. The first blow knocked the opponent's blade away; the second forced him back with a superficial wound on his arm.

But the noise attracted the others.

Two figures emerged from the alley—the other hunters, armed.

Damon retreated, assessing the terrain. He couldn't use too much mana. If the bracelet's enchantment failed here, it would be the end.

The first one advanced. Damon parried, spun his body, and knocked him down with his shoulder, using the force of his own weight. The second came right after, a dagger in each hand. Damon blocked the first, dodged the second, and responded with a blow to the knee. The man fell, screaming.

"Enough!" roared the leader, raising a containment rune—a circular seal engraved in iron.

The blue light flared.

Damon felt his pulse quicken. The bracelet reacted, the glyphs flickering.

Not now...

The seal shone brighter.

A crack echoed—and the bracelet cracked on the surface.

For a second, the world seemed to stop.

The disguise wavered: Damon's pupils contracted, the color of his eyes turned silver, and the air around him vibrated, distorted.

The hunter hesitated—and that half-second was enough.

Damon lunged forward, the blade tracing a bright arc in the air. The blow went through the seal, shattering the iron and extinguishing the blue glow. The impact exploded in a brief flash.

When the light dissipated, two men were down. The third, the leader, was still breathing, but didn't dare move.

Damon stared at him, his eyes still flashing under the hood. "Say it was an accident," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "And that you never saw me."

The man nodded quickly, swallowing hard. Damon sheathed his sword, pulled up his hood, and mounted his horse without looking back.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.