Damon rode until he was far enough from the village that the lights disappeared completely behind the trees. The cold wind cut at his face, and the sound of the hooves muffled any trace of remorse. He didn't look back—there was nothing there worth keeping.

When he finally stopped, the moon was already high, veiled by thin clouds.

He dismounted slowly, taking a deep breath. The bracelet still flickered—unstable glyphs, the arcane markings writhing as if trying to detach themselves from the surface.

The enchantment was on the verge of complete failure.

Damon knelt in the middle of the road, resting his sword beside him. He closed his eyes, feeling the pulse of mana vibrate beneath his skin—wild, impatient.

"Calm down..." he murmured.

The silver glow began to spread through his veins, climbing up his arm to his shoulder. The air around him became dense, almost palpable, and for an instant the metallic scent of pure mana filled the space.

He ran his fingers over the damaged glyphs, tracing the pattern with almost ritualistic precision. Each line he drew in the air restored a part of the seal, as if sewing the energy into an invisible fabric. The soft sound of ancient enchantments whispered between his clenched teeth—fragments of the language that Caerth had forced him to memorize to the point of exhaustion.

The bracelet responded.

The glow flickered, then stabilized, settling into a cool, serene tone.

Damon exhaled slowly. The pressure in his chest lessened.

The enchantment was stable again—discreet, contained, completely masking the flow of infernal energy that coursed through his veins.

He observed the bracelet for a moment, his gaze weary. The superficial cracks had disappeared, but the internal structure... that wouldn't withstand many more shocks like that one. "One more false step and everything will collapse," he murmured, with a half-smile.

He mounted his horse again and pulled up his hood, covering his face. The forests swallowed him again in silence, the sound of the hooves muffled by the damp earth.

"Better to camp…"

Damon chose a narrow nook between two rocky outcrops to set up camp—a natural shelter that protected him from the wind and hid the campfire from prying eyes.

He methodically unsaddled the horse, fed it, and lit a small fire, just enough to heat the soup simmering in a small pot. Twilight fell quickly; the shadows lengthened until they touched the cloak of the sky.

He ate calmly, keeping his senses alert as always. The bracelet on his wrist emanated a cold, constant glow; he covered it with his sleeve, as if hiding his own wrist were a gesture of discipline. The world seemed to grow accustomed to his regular breathing—until a dry crack, coming from the trail, cut the silence.

Figures emerged from among the trees: four men, silent steps, worn cloaks, hungry eyes. Highwaymen. There was no honor in their postures, only the certainty of easy prey.

"Good evening," said the leader, a low, harsh voice. "Hand over what you have. No fighting."

Damon looked at the men, assessing them. His fingers touched the hilt of his sword, but he didn't draw it immediately. He observed their expressions, measured the distance, felt the mana bubbling, contained near the surface by the bracelet. No panic. No haste.

"I don't like to be rushed," he replied calmly. "And you, apparently, like other people's things."

The man smiled maliciously and took a step forward, his hands ready to draw a dagger.

That was enough.

Damon moved like a breath of wind. The blade flashed out in a short, precise arc; the first bandit tried to react and only felt the pressure of the steel against the side of his neck before collapsing, his muscles relaxing against the ground as if the blade had asked permission. Two steps, another turn—Damon gave no room for organized resistance. In less than an instant, the clearing became the stage for a swift dance, contained violence, a sentence executed.

But he didn't want to turn it into a massacre. He wanted to finish before the situation devolved into chaos that could expose his true nature. When the third opponent lunged over a rock, weapon drawn, Damon planted his feet firmly, his boots digging into the earth, and the mana flowing beneath his skin was summoned not in fury, but in order. The air chilled; the night's moisture crystallized into thin, translucent blades that sprouted from the ground like poisoned petals.

The first bandit who tried to roll backward found the ground beneath him transformed into glass: his feet became stuck, his breath escaping in muffled gasps. The second tried to jump, but ice grew around his legs like stone roots, trapping him and lifting him a few centimeters off the ground. The leader, seeing the scene, widened his eyes—surprise, fear—and made a move to retreat. Damon advanced under the pale moonlight and, with a swift blow, struck with the blade; the bodies of the three fell without an excessive sound, immobilized, then inert.

There were no prolonged screams, no barbaric scenes. They simply stopped moving. The cold that Damon had summoned invaded the clearing and, in minutes, transformed the threat into motionless forms, like sad statues scattered on the ground—prey that no one would claim anymore.

When it was all over, the silence returned heavily. The horse stirred restlessly, and Damon took a deep breath. He didn't like what he had done, but there was no alternative: survival demanded clean and quick decisions. He dismounted, removed his glove, touched the bracelet—the enchantment vibrated, noting the expenditure. Small cracks ran across the metallic surface; he frowned. He had succeeded, however: no one there had witnessed anything that could be linked to the supernatural. The ice and the blade had done the job without revealing the true source.

Without theatrical haste, Damon searched the bodies. Simple weapons—knives, a small serrated dagger, some coins, a bag with half-spoiled bread, and a pouch with a few crowns. He also found a bronze medallion, with markings that perhaps indicated affiliation with a local guild. He took what he could usefully carry: provisions, the best-made dagger, some gold seeds for emergencies. He carefully scattered the remains, making it look as if a large pack had devoured them and moved on.

Damon wiped the blade on a piece of cloth and sheathed it with a dry click. The sound echoed softly in the clearing, and the silence that followed seemed even heavier. The fire in the small campfire was dying down, casting shadows that stretched like specters across the frozen ground.

He observed the motionless bodies, crystallized by the cold he had summoned—crude sculptures of a moment he preferred not to remember. The steam from his breath rose in short, rhythmic clouds. The bracelet emitted a faint glow again, like a heart beating on his wrist. Damon stared at it for a long time, until the glow stabilized again, discreet, obedient.

"Control, not hide..." he murmured, repeating Caerth's words.

But deep down, he knew he was doing both.

After cleaning up the traces of the fight, he pushed the frozen bodies into a crevice between the rocks. The ice would melt with the morning sun and carry everything away—no curious traveler would find signs of what had happened there. When he finished, cold sweat ran down his neck, mixed with the biting wind of dawn.

He finally lay down beside the dying campfire. Sleep didn't come quickly—the silence seemed alive, and every distant crackle made him open his eyes. But gradually, the tension dissolved, and his mind loosened the weight of vigilance.

Dawn arrived gray. Frost covered the ground and branches, transforming the campsite into a still winter scene. Damon got up, fed the horse, and took a sip of the almost frozen water from his canteen. He felt exhausted, but whole.

He mounted and resumed the trail without looking back.

The following hours passed slowly. The path through the mountains opened in narrow curves and shallow valleys. The sound of hooves echoed against the stones, keeping pace with his heartbeat—steady, constant. With each mile, the cold seemed deeper, and the sun more distant.

Around midday, Damon reached a stretch of road lined with ancient, moss-covered trees. The wind whispered through the branches, and the air had that damp, heavy smell that precedes a storm.

He pulled up his hood, observing the horizon. Arven shouldn't be far—perhaps two more days of travel. But the weight of the recent battles made him carefully consider each stop.

In the distance, a crow landed on a broken tree trunk and watched him silently. Damon held his gaze for a moment—not on the animal, but on the omen. He had learned that the world spoke through signs, and almost all of them carried the same warning: "remain vigilant."

The following night was less cold, but more restless.

The fire burned low, and Damon sharpened his sword with slow movements, the sound of metal scraping the air like a compass. The bracelet remained stable; the enchantment that had restored it seemed firm, but he knew it was only a matter of time until another overload would put it to the test.

He looked up at the sky—the moonlight reflected on the blade like a thread of mercury. He thought of Elizabeth, of the orders she had given with that calculated serenity of someone who rarely allowed herself to feel. He thought of Caerth, and how the old man had molded him through pain and discipline.

"You are more than what you carry within you," Caerth had once said.

"But you are also exactly that."

The crackling of the firewood brought him back.

Nothing moved except the flames. Still, Damon noticed a slight displacement in the air—a discreet vibration, like the beating of invisible wings. His senses sharpened.

Slowly, he extinguished part of the fire with his foot, reducing the light. The forest became almost dark, except for the discreet glow of the moon. The wind blew again... and then the sound of footsteps came from the left.

But they weren't human. They were too light.

Too fast.

Damon rose and drew his sword.

From the bushes, four small, agile creatures emerged—they looked like compact shadows, with wolf-like bodies and colorless eyes. Wild spirits of residual mana, attracted by the remnants of infernal energy that always emanated from him, even under the disguise of the bracelet.

They surrounded the camp, sniffing, hissing softly. Damon held his position, his gaze fixed on the first of them.

"You have no idea of ​​the mistake you've made."

The words came out low, but the power in them was almost physical.

The air suddenly grew cold—not the natural cold of the night, but a dense, magical cold that came from within. Damon took a step forward, and the ground beneath him cracked with the sound of growing ice.

The spirits recoiled, but it was too late.

The mana he had contained for hours finally escaped. Not in fury, but with precision: the ice spread like a web, each strand finding a target. The creatures were instantly trapped, frozen in motion, eyes fixed in eternal terror.

Damon exhaled slowly, and the wind returned silence to the forest.

He knelt down, touching the ice, feeling the echo of the energy he had used. Small cracks reappeared on the bracelet, but the glow remained steady. The balance between power and disguise still held—barely.

After a few minutes, he cleaned his sword, completely extinguished the fire, and lay down on his folded cloak, the cold of the ground rising up his back.

"—Two days..." he murmured, his gaze fixed on the stars. "Just two more."

Sleep overtook him quickly, heavy, but dreamless.

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