The heavy humidity of the bathhouse had long faded, replaced by the crisp and refreshing clarity of the June air. It was a wind that tasted of pine resin and old stone, carrying with it a nostalgic touch that brushed against Torghan's soul.
Eight years.
When he had left these peaks as a young man, he had believed this horizon was the edge of the world. Now, returning with the weight of adulthood and the scars of a warrior, he realized just how small these mountains truly were. In his time as Chieftain of the Voghondai, Torghan had undergone a transformation more profound than any battle could offer.
He had mastered the Southern tongue, learned the sorcery of reading and writing, and immersed himself in the cold wealth of history. He saw the world now not through the eyes of a tribesman, but through the eyes of a better man.
