The weeks rolled by in quiet rhythm.
Lumberling lived like a monk.
Each morning, before the dew had dried from the leaves, he returned to the same tree—his tree—near the edge of the golden fields. His footsteps were silent, his presence barely noticed. He no longer gave orders. He no longer trained with the others. He barely spoke.
He simply… sat.
Cross-legged beneath the same rough bark, the roots curling like old bones beneath him, he closed his eyes and listened—to himself, to his breath, to the ghosts that still stirred in the back of his mind.
The goblins came and went around him. Sometimes children peeked from behind bushes, curious, whispering. But none dared approach. Skitz would sometimes watch from a distance, silently ensuring no one disturbed him.
Days bled into one another.
Sometimes, Lumberling forgot to eat. Other times, he didn't even notice the sun had set until the cold of night bit at his back.
The memories still came.
