The night was unusually cold, the moon a mere sliver of light that barely broke through the swirling mist blanketing the northern premises of the murky forests. The trees whispered dark secrets to each other, and in their midst, Drystan moved like a shadow. His eyes gleamed red under the cloak of night, sharp and feral, like a predator on the hunt. He had been hunting, in a sense, but his quarry wasn't mere prey—it was something much more elusive: the missing parts of the tome of Vythrith.
His mood had soured since his encounter with Ravenor, the thought of his younger brother provoking a deep well of rage inside him. Decades of rogue life had left him bitter and twisted, his heart blackened by years of festering hatred. The power he once held had been stripped away, and now, even with his freedom regained, he could feel the phantom chains of his disgrace pulling at him.
But that would change soon.
