Ithor hesitated. He tried to stop the bloodshed. Placing himself between Nora and a muscular ranger who fought beside a bluish wolf, he shouted:
"They just need help!" he cried, back turned to the woman.
But Faaron caught the scent.
And saw the dagger flying toward Ithor's neck.
The wolf lunged at Nora with a savage snarl. They tumbled across the moss-covered ground. Nora raised the blade. The howl that followed cleaved the night like a blade — sharp, desperate, final.
"NO!" Ithor rushed to the wolf's side, cradling his body in his arms. "Faaron… please, no…"
The dagger buried in his eye glistened with venom. The wolf trembled but no longer moved.
The Naruun, enraged, took down the mercenaries one by one. One of the Sangor tried to summon more blood-magic, but a lancer mounted on a wind-swift stag decapitated him mid-incantation. Nora fled into the shadows, but a ranger with owl eyes tracked her through the darkness and brought her down. The humans fell under claw and steel alike.
When it was over, only wounded bodies and heavy breaths remained.
Ithor, on his knees, still held Faaron's body. The severed bond left a hollow in his soul, as if a piece of him had been torn out without warning. His mind, once alive with the pulse of connection, was now a void of unbearable silence.
"Betrayed by the bond…" murmured the patrol leader, his gaze heavy. "You broke our oaths."
There was no long trial. The elders listened to the reports, looked upon the wolf's body and the maps seized from the invaders. The verdict was unanimous: exile.
Ithor would never be allowed to form another bond.
He was no longer Naruun.
At the edge of the forest, Ithor knelt. He placed his palm upon the sacred soil one last time.
"One day, I will honor your sacrifice, Faaron…" he whispered. "And when I am worthy… I will come home."
Months passed. Ithor wandered through inhospitable lands. He slept under the rain in groaning swamps, crossed deserts where nights froze his bones and days scorched his skin. He walked through plains where magic hung in the air like a forgotten promise. No one trusted a tamer without a companion. And he no longer sought anyone's trust.
He became a messenger, a mercenary, a guide through dangerous frontiers — but never, not once, did he allow a new bond to bloom. Deep in his gut, he knew forming one would be betrayal. As if part of his soul was still bound to a place he could no longer reach. As if Faaron was still waiting in silence, somewhere beyond time.
While working in border villages, Ithor heard stories about poachers and mercenary groups violating the natural sanctuaries of the Naruun and even the Zhyren. They were organized raiders, armed with suppression runes, magic-stealing talents, and poisoned crossbows. Some captured sacred creatures for trade. Others hunted natural elements like the living fire of the Zhyren — selling it off as relics.
Ithor didn't hesitate.
If he couldn't protect the forest from within, he would do it from the outside. He started by intercepting suspicious cargo. He ambushed hunters on hidden trails, erased tracks using enchanted leaves, and crafted traps from roots he'd learned to manipulate in his Naruun childhood. In some battles, he fought entire groups alone — relying only on his wits, speed, and the instincts that still pulsed in his blood.
And little by little, he earned respect.
Other outcasts and exiled tamers began to recognize him. Some feared him. Others followed him. A whisper began to spread along illegal routes: the Packless Wolf had claimed the edges of the forests as his territory. And no one crossed his trails unpunished.
Still… the emptiness remained.
At night, dreams came like silent mist. And they always ended the same: Ithor running through unfamiliar trees, branches slashing his face, until a howl echoed in the distance. Faaron's howl — deep, mournful, calling him. He would sprint toward the sound, desperate, but he never reached it. He always awoke just before, his chest heaving, his eyes wet.
It felt like his wolf brother was trying to reach him from a place beyond understanding. Or was waiting… for something. For a moment. A reunion.
Once, in a village near Varthom, he overheard an elder say that true bonds never die — they merely retreat in time, waiting for the right call to bloom again. Ithor said nothing. But the words stayed with him like cold embers beneath his skin.
Throughout his journey, he met Naruun who had heard of him. Some spat on the ground at the sight of him. Others simply walked away. But once, an old tamer — a blind hunter who lived near the edge of a swamp — offered him tea and said:
"Those who betray, Ithor, rarely get a second chance to redeem themselves. But when they do… the whole world changes around them. You just need to listen again. Not with your ears. But with what you lost."
And then, in Esh-Tahar, came the rumor.
Young Olkhar fighting atop Mount Ilhyr. Stone creatures emerging from nowhere. And the Domo… roaring, as if alive.
Ithor trembled. The sound described by the travelers — that deep, resonant echo — was the same he had heard in his dreams, woven with Faaron's howl. A call, ancient and primal. It wasn't just magic. It was a sign.
The Bearer had emerged.
If the stories were true, then the Domo had awakened for the first time in centuries. And if the Domo had awakened… then everything would change. Perhaps the scars Ithor carried could also find healing.
Perhaps there was still time.
The next morning, he left Esh-Tahar. He told no one where he was going. He said no farewells. He simply gathered his dark leather cloak, fastened the curved blade to his belt, and touched the silent ring he still carried — the one he'd once used to meet with Nora.
It didn't glow.
But Ithor didn't need it anymore. The call was different now. And the path led north.
To the peak of Ilhyr.
To the Portador.
And perhaps… to Faaron.
With steady steps, Ithor turned his gaze to the north. Toward the call of the Domo.