Chapter 57: Welcome to Falrig.

The silence was heavy as the two of them walked along the dirt road covered in snow and blood.

The wind blew low, whistling through the twisted trees. Damon walked a few paces behind Ester, his spear resting on his shoulder, his body still trembling from the brutal discharge of energy he had endured.

The ground crackled beneath their boots, the red-tinged snow crunching like ground bones.

For long minutes, only their footsteps filled the void.

Damon finally spoke, his voice still hoarse:

“And the horses?” he asked, looking around uneasily. “Aren’t we going back to the road with them? The carriage…”

Ester didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. She simply answered, as if it were obvious:

“Look.”

Damon frowned, turning.

A few meters behind, at the same spot where the carnage had begun, the bodies of the two horses littered the snow. The creatures, who had once pulled the carriage with vigor, lay on their sides, their sides ripped open by deep gashes. Thick, black blood flowed in pools already frozen by the cold, their manes still stained with crimson splashes.

Damon’s gaze wavered. He felt his stomach churn.

Not just at the sight of them dead, but at the detail he hadn’t noticed before: the frozen terror in the creatures’ eyes. They had suffered.

He looked away, swallowing hard.

“Damn it…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “They didn’t even have a chance…”

Ester stopped then, turning slowly to him.

Her blue eyes glittered through the mist, cold as ice.

“Chance?” she repeated, almost mocking. “The weak don’t have a chance.”

Damon clenched his fists, feeling anger boil along with nausea.

“They were just animals, Ester! They weren’t to blame for anything!”

She took a step toward him, lifting her chin.

“And you think that matters to the blade that cut them?” she said, her voice firm, leaving no room for reply. “On the battlefield, everyone bleeds. Men, women, children, animals. Blood is blood. The world doesn’t stop to mourn the dead.”

Damon’s chest heaved. He wanted to scream, wanted to retort, but the words died in his throat. Because he knew she was right—and, at the same time, he hated that truth.

Ester turned again and walked on, her dark cloak dragging over the stained snow.

“Then let’s walk,” she finished coldly. “If you want to live in this world, learn to keep going even when all you have left are corpses behind you.”

Damon stood still for a moment, looking one last time at the bodies of the horses.

Tears burned behind his eyes, but he didn’t cry. Not because he didn’t want to. But because, deep down, that same voice that had echoed within him before whispered again:

“What if it were them? You or them. The strong or the weak.”

He tightened his grip on the spear, swallowing the lump in his throat, and ran to catch up with Ester on the road.

The road stretched before them like a white scar winding through the trees. The snow fell lightly, but the cold was anything but gentle: it was a wind that cut through the skin like a blade, carrying the metallic scent of still-fresh blood, trapped in the memory of the forest behind them.

Damon walked with heavy strides, the spear resting against his shoulder. Every so often, he glanced at it, as if the weapon were part of his own flesh now. The iron was covered in dried, blackened blood, imbued with a red glow that seemed unwilling to fade. He tried to rub it against the snow, but it was no use. The metal remained stained, as if mocking him.

Ester, ahead, walked in absolute silence. Her black cloak brushed the snow, trailing a clean trail, as if the earth itself bowed to let her pass. Her blue hair, still tinged with blood, blew in the wind.

Damon watched her, trying to decipher what lurked behind that impenetrable calm. She seemed unaffected. Not by the massacre of the elves, not by the dead horses, not by the power he had unleashed so violently.

The silence suffocated him.

“Esther…” His voice was hoarse, hesitant. “Have you… ever felt this before?”

She didn’t slow.

“What?”

“This… this thing. This fire inside my skin. This hunger.” He clenched his fists, struggling to put it into words. “I felt like I was going to die, but at the same time… like I was truly alive for the first time.”

Esther remained silent for a few moments. The wind carried her answer only after a few steps.

“It’s your instinct.”

“Instinct?”

“Demons are not meant to live in silence. Nor in peace. You are born of hunger. Of desire. Of excess.” She turned her face slightly, enough for one of her blue eyes to lock onto his. “The more you deny it, the faster you’ll fall apart.”

Damon bit his lip. Her words were too sharp for him to reject. And deep down, he knew she was right.

He remembered the taste. The heat. The explosion. It hadn’t just been killing. It hadn’t just been surviving. It had been something bigger, something that seeped into his bones and said, “This is how you’re supposed to be.”

But alongside that memory were the horses’ eyes. The frozen terror. The blood on the ground. His stomach churned just thinking about it.

The road seemed to stretch on forever. The tall, snow-covered trees cast elongated shadows that danced in the wind. Every so often, Damon heard branches snap—crows taking flight, or maybe just the woods reminding them they were in hostile territory.

Hours passed.

The sun was already low, a pale disk hidden behind heavy clouds. The forest was thinning, and in the distance, Damon saw smoke rising in twisting columns. A city.

His heart raced. Not because he was anxious to get there—but because he didn’t know what he’d find. People. Guards. Stares. What would they say about him? What would they say about the two of them?

“It’s over there.” Ester pointed with a simple gesture, without slowing down.

Damon took a deep breath.

“How are we going to get in?” he asked. “You… don’t you think they’ll get suspicious?”

Ester arched an eyebrow.

“Do you look that guilty?”

He swallowed.

She smiled slightly, but there was no warmth in the gesture. Only irony.

“Then don’t show anything,” she added. “If you act like a monster, they’ll see you as a monster. If you act like a man, they’ll see nothing.”

Damon thought about retort, but stopped. He didn’t know how to act like a man, nor like a monster. At the moment, he just felt… broken.

The city walls weren’t high, but the reinforced wooden gate looked imposing against the snow. Two guards stood there, thick cloaks against the cold, spears in hand. The smell of smoke was stronger, coming from the chimneys rising beyond the walls.

As they approached, one of the guards raised his hand.

“Identify yourselves.”

Ester didn’t hesitate.

“Travelers. Towards the Duchy.”

Her voice was calm, firm, as if it were unquestionable truth.

The guard looked her up and down, lingering longer on Damon, who carried the blood-stained spear. Damon felt his heart race, and for a moment he thought his legs would give out.

But Ester stepped forward, partially concealing her weapon with the movement of her cloak.

“We had trouble on the road. Bandits,” she said, without blinking. “They won’t need shelter anymore.”

The silence was heavy for a moment. The guard studied them a moment longer, then finally nodded, raising his hand to clear the way.

“Welcome to Falrig.”

Damon breathed a sigh of relief as he walked through the gate, as if he had just escaped a trap.

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