Outside the rough little hideout, morning air bit sharper and colder. Thin mist drifted slow across empty road; tall iron gates stood swung half‑open — framing dark forest stretching endless and grey beyond.
Nathan waited beside harnessed chariot: arms folded loose easy across chest… horses stamping restless, breath pluming white against frost‑hardened ground.
Yet I could not move feet forward. Not yet. Every sense remained anchored entirely upon Draven.
He stood several paces away right near gateposts — dressed again in deep black as if darkness itself had woven shape naturally round him. Wind tugged soft at his hair and coat‑hems… yet Draven remained utterly untouched by chill. Remote. Untouchable. Already… halfway gone in spirit.
"Go now." Draven spoke quiet… level… maddeningly calm. His tone gave nothing away — as though turning away and leaving me behind cost him absolutely nothing at all.
