Date: March 1, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The last morning in Torm's hut began like hundreds before it. The first rays of the sun, pale and cold, penetrated the only frost-covered window, picking out familiar shapes from the twilight: the roughly made table, the hearth where the embers had already died, and the figure of the old hunter, silently sitting on his camp bed, rubbing his bowstring with special resin. Dur woke to this familiar rustle and lay motionless for a few seconds, listening to the rhythm of his heart. It beat steadily and calmly. There was no fear of the coming day, no feverish excitement in anticipation of a hunt. Only a clear, cold awareness of a simple fact that had matured within him over the last weeks: here, in this hut, he had nothing more to learn.
He got up, his movements quiet and precise. He rolled up his thin blanket, walked to the water barrel, and washed with the icy water without flinching. He had become accustomed to the cold, as he had become accustomed to the weight of the bow in his hand and the knife at his belt. Five months. Five months separated the helpless, frightened boy, bleeding on the forest floor, from who he was now. He hadn't become a warrior, a legendary hero. He had become a hunter. A survivor. And that was enough to continue his journey.
He turned to Torm. The old man wasn't looking at him, continuing his monotonous task. His face, furrowed with wrinkles and scars, was impenetrable.
"I'm leaving," Dur said. His voice was quiet but firm, without a hint of uncertainty. He wasn't asking permission. He was stating a fact.
Torm's movements didn't pause. He only nodded, one short, sharp nod. It seemed he had been expecting this from the very beginning. He reached out and took a bundle from the table, tightly tied with a leather thong.
"Take it," he grunted, handing it to Dur.
Dur untied the thong. Inside lay a bow. Not the training one, with which he had spent countless hours, but a real, combat hunting bow, carefully crafted and polished, with perfectly even limbs and a strong, resilient string. Beside it lay his own knife, but now in a new, comfortable sheath, its blade gleaming with a perfect, mirror-like sharpness. And lastly, a small but tightly packed pouch. Dur opened it and saw inside dried meat, hard cheese, a handful of rusks, and a small flint with a striker.
He looked at these gifts, and a lump formed in his throat. It was more than just equipment. It was a blessing. It was recognition.
"Thank you," Dur said, and in this simple word was everything: gratitude for his saved life, for shelter, for food, for every correction at the stance, for every silent lesson by the fire.
Torm finally looked up at him. His eyes, like two slits in old leather, were still stern, but deep within them glowed that same rare spark of approval.
"Don't be in a hurry to die," he uttered his usual, seemingly impassive words. But this time, there was a new nuance in them. "The forest won't appreciate it. The world—it's big. And it doesn't care about your oath or your fear. It just is. Keep your eyes open. Trust the ground under your feet more than words in your ears."
He stood up and, without another word, walked out of the hut. Dur understood. There would be no farewells. That was their price. Silently, he picked up his old, battered pack, put Torm's gifts inside, and followed him out.
At the threshold, he paused for a moment, casting a glance over the small, forest-lost hut, the smoke from the chimney, the neatly stacked woodpile. This place had become his home. More truly home than the "Old Pine" orphanage. Here he had found not just skills, but himself. Here he had ceased to be a victim.
He turned his back on the hut and took his first step east. The forest welcomed him into its embrace. He walked, and with every step, the weight of gratitude and sorrow gradually transformed into a calm, confident resolve. He didn't look back. He knew Torm wasn't standing by the hut watching him go. He had already returned to his own affairs, his own life. And this was the most correct and honest ending to their story.
The road ahead was long. Somewhere out there, far to the east, his friends awaited him, his own path, his part of the oath awaited him. And now, with a bow on his back and a knife at his belt, he was ready to walk it. He walked, listening to the voices of the forest, already understanding their language, and for the first time in a long while, he felt not fear of the unknown, but a quiet, indomitable curiosity about the world he was about to discover.