The road bends northward, but the past refuses to stay buried. As Kinlan disappears behind him, Malak carried more than a sword—he carried regrets. In this first chapter of a new leg, bonds are tested, and the storm and the wolves in the distance are not just nature. It's a battle.
"The wind bit cold through Kinlan’s valley as Malak urged Cinder north, its edge sharp against his weathered skin, tugging at his frayed cloak. Behind him, the village faded into duskstone cottages low and solid, thatched roofs pale with frost, chimneys sending thin smoke into a sky turning gray. The air held the faint smell of hay, warm from the day, and damp soil—Kinlan’s quiet, a life he’d dug into with his own hands. But Cinder’s hooves crunched on the frozen path, and those smells slipped away, overtaken by Terindale’s bite—pine sharp in his nose, moss damp and heavy, a faint copper tang like old blood under the earth."
"Faith pulled against fear as he rode, a churn in his gut. He was a farmer—hands rough from turning earth, not steel, days set by dawn and dusk, prayers said over plowed rows. Now an old blade hung at his side, plain and heavy, untouched for thirty years. It felt wrong, alive with memories he didn’t want. 'Lord, steady me,' he murmured, the words a breath against the cold. 'Your will, not mine.'"
Coming soon: Reflections, background, and thoughts from the trail.
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