The night in Lamping Village brought a stillness that was worlds apart from the suffocating, pitch-black darkness of Vaelith's underground dungeons. Here, the darkness felt like a warm, protective blanket, accompanied by a natural symphony of crickets and the rhythmic rustle of Manaferum wheat leaves swaying in the northern breeze. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and dry straw, providing a sense of tranquility that almost made Dayat forget he was the most wanted fugitive in the entire Kingdom of Verdia.
Dayat sat atop a stack of hay inside Thalor's granary. A small oil lamp hung from a wooden beam, casting a dancing orange glow that flickered across his weary face. In his hands, he held a piece of soft wood, carefully smoothing it with a small pocket knife—not as a weapon, but as a simple tool to stave off the gnawing restlessness in his mind.
