The forest was silent.
But this silence was not peace.
The wind passing through the branches whistled coldly. The smell of damp earth had mixed with the scent of blood, turning into heavy, oppressive air. Darkness had not yet fully fallen, yet the light was weak — the sky gray, the trees standing like shadows.
Zaber walked.
Not heavily. Not hurriedly. But without stopping.
The wound on his shoulder. The blood had dried. With every step the skin pulled, sending pain through him. He paid it no attention. Because if you pay attention to pain, you stray from your purpose.
He did not look back.
After several hundred steps he stopped. Pressed his hand to the bark of a tree.
In a low, cold voice he whispered:
"I have found one more reason to become strong…"
"To stop running."
The surroundings were silent.
Yet something inside him stirred.
The goblin nest now lay behind him.
The plan had been good.
