The forest had long since sunk into shadow.
Night blanketed the treetops in velvet, and the air turned cooler with every passing breeze.
In a small clearing tucked between twisted roots and thick foliage, a single campfire crackled, shedding warm orange light over the quiet figure sitting beside it.
Simon stared into the flames, a strip of jerky between his teeth. His expression was unreadable—blank, calm, undisturbed. As always.
He chewed slowly, without any rush.
Earlier, he'd attempted to roast a chunk of serpent meat from the giant magical beast he killed, but the tough, venom-laced flesh was uncooperative. He couldn't purify it, and cooking wasn't within his skillset. So he gave up, pulled out his preserved jerky, and gnawed in peace.
Crack.
The sound of something brushing through the undergrowth behind him.
Simon didn't move right away, but his hand dropped to his sword.
Another sound—low, rhythmic padding.
Then a bark.
Simon blinked once and eased his grip.
