During their travels, Lumberling stopped drawing his blade.
The scent of blood had become a trigger, sharp, primal, impossible to ignore. It stirred something inside him, something he no longer trusted. So whenever bandits or thugs blocked their path, he stood back.
And Skitz stepped forward.
Without hesitation, without question.
He became the shield and sword of his Lord, cutting down threats with precision and control. Not because Lumberling couldn't fight, but because right now, restraint was the harder battle.
Skitz understood that.
And he fought all the harder for it.
…..
One night.
Lumberling and Skitz stood on a cliffside, watching smoke rise from a distant town.
Skitz shifted beside him. "It's getting worse."
He watched Lumberling from across the campfire. The man hadn't blinked in a full minute. It wasn't exhaustion anymore, it was something deeper.
Lumberling nodded. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, unreadable.
