By the time Asher reached the valley pass, dawn was breaking. The light hit the peaks, scattering across the snow. He didn't stop to admire it. He was exhausted—physically and mentally drained from what had just happened in the abyss. His body ached, his armor was cracked, and his scythe still faintly pulsed with residual heat.
He followed the trail down without a word. The guards at the outpost saw him but didn't say anything; they just stepped aside, staring as he passed. He didn't bother reporting to anyone this time. He didn't care about the Association, the records, or the rewards. He just wanted to sleep.
He reached the inn by evening. The place was quiet. A few travelers sat by the fire, but Asher didn't even look their way. He went straight up the stairs, down the hall, and into his room.
He closed the door behind him, dropped his gear in the corner, and sat on the edge of the bed. His hands felt heavy. The room was dim, only a single lamp burning near the wall.
