Morning came without warmth.
Gray light filtered through the tent as Varyan forced his eyes open. His body felt heavier than before, every movement pulling against stitched flesh and tightly wrapped bandages.
Exile.
The word lingered in his mind, calm and familiar. Not the first time the world had pushed him away.
He planted one hand against the ground and tried to sit up.
Pain surged instantly—sharp, unforgiving.
His breath hitched, teeth clenching as his muscles trembled. For a moment, darkness crept back into the edges of his vision.
But he didn't fall.
Slowly, inch by inch, Varyan dragged himself upright. Sweat beaded along his brow despite the cold. His heart pounded, not with fear—but defiance.
Outside the tent, villagers watched in silence.
No one helped him.
No one stopped him.
A bundle was placed near the entrance—water, dry bread, a worn cloak. Enough to say they weren't monsters. Not enough to save him.
Varyan wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and stepped forward.
The moment his foot touched the ground, his legs nearly gave out. He caught himself on a tent pole, breathing hard, vision swimming.
So this is what remains, he thought. A broken body… and a road that leads nowhere.
The elder met his gaze one last time.
"Do not return," he said.
Varyan nodded.
He didn't look back as he walked past them—each step slow, painful, deliberate. Blood seeped faintly through the bandages, but he didn't stop.
Beyond the village, the land stretched wide and empty. Dead trees. Cold wind. An uncertain horizon.
No raven in the sky.
No shadow at his side.
Only his own will carrying him forward.
And as Varyan Duskveil crossed the boundary of their lands, a single thought settled firmly in his mind:
If I survive this… the world will never cast me aside again.
He took another step.
Then another.
Into exile.
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