A month and a half later.
The Rugarda Forest was vast—so much that one could see different types of atmosphere in some parts.
One such region, unlike any other place in Rugarda Forest, carried no trace of malice.
It hummed with quiet life—soft, nurturing, and impossibly serene.
Birdsong drifted lazily between the branches, and sunlight poured down through cracks in the dense canopy, scattering gold on the mossy earth below.
Here, a village, away from everyone's eyes, lived peacefully.
And among the people of the village, Vaelen Baneron walked as if he belonged there.
The crimson-haired knight's boots crunched over fallen leaves as he dragged a freshly slain boar behind him.
His tunic was half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong arms that bore faint scars and dirt smudges. His hair, once combed to noble precision, now fell in loose disarray across his forehead.
