Chapter 58: He wanted to fight.

The town was simple, made of stone and wood, but teeming with life. Still-open stalls displayed salted fish, wolf pelts, and stale bread fresh from the oven. Men carried firewood, women shouted prices, and children ran through the narrow alleys.

Damon looked around with wide eyes. It wasn’t just the bustle—it was the warmth of people. The stark contrast to the forest they had come from. It was as if they were two different worlds separated by a wall.

But with each passing face, Damon felt his throat dry. Every human heartbeat was like a drum in his ears. The smell of blood lingered beneath the smell of bread and smoke. And the voice inside him whispered again: “All of them. Weak. Meat.”

He closed his eyes, trying to push the thought away.

“Control,” he murmured to himself, remembering Ester’s words.

Ester didn’t seem to notice—or just didn’t care. She walked through the streets as if she already knew the place, ignoring the curious glances her presence inevitably attracted.

They stopped in front of a two-story inn with an iron sign in the shape of a boar hanging over the door. Yellow light leaked from the windows, and cheerful voices echoed from within.

Ester opened the door without ceremony. Warm air immediately enveloped them, thick with the smell of beer and roast meat.

Men laughed loudly at wooden tables, a fireplace crackled in the background, and a plump woman behind the counter wiped mugs with a cloth.

Ester went straight to the counter. Damon stood for a moment, uncomfortable with all the stares falling on him, before following her.

“A room,” Ester said to the woman at the counter bluntly. “For two.”

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow, assessing them with a watchful eye.

“Payment in advance.”

Ester took a few silver coins from her purse and placed them on the wood. The metallic sound silenced some whispers around her.

The woman took the money, bit into one of the coins to check, and finally smiled.

“Second floor, door at the end of the hallway.”

Ester simply nodded and turned, walking toward the stairs.

Damon followed her, but not before feeling the heavy gazes on him again. Suspicious men, curious women, children peering between the legs of adults. He felt exposed, as if everyone could see the dried blood still clinging to his skin.

In the narrow hallway, the noise of the living room faded. Ester opened the door to the room, a simple room with two narrow beds, a table, and a wooden window overlooking the dark street.

She entered, took off her cloak, and threw it on the nearest bed.

“Rest,” she said, without even looking at him. “Tomorrow we’ll have to hit the road again.”

Damon stood in the doorway, his heart still heavy. His fingers brushed the spear, and the scent of blood seemed to permeate even the warm air of the inn.

He didn’t know if he could sleep. He didn’t know if he could rest with the voice inside him whispering, begging for more.

But looking at Ester, who was now sitting up in bed and releasing her still-stained hair, he realized he had no choice.

He would either follow her.

Or he would die.

And for the first time, Damon began to accept that there might be no middle ground.

The room was silent. Only the distant crackling of the fireplace in the hall below reached them, muffled by the floorboards. The wind whizzed outside, beating against the poorly sealed windows, bringing with it the damp smell of snow.

Ester sat on the edge of the bed, taking off her boots slowly, as if every movement were calculated. His expression remained serene, almost bored, as if the forest massacre were just another irrelevant detail of the day.

Damon, however, remained standing by the door, his spear resting on the ground. His eyes were fixed on the weapon, as if it were a mirror in which he saw not only his own image, but something deeper. Something staring back at him.

He swallowed hard.

“Do you really sleep after… all this?” he asked, his voice low, as if afraid to break the silence.

Ester looked up at him. A half-smile touched her lips, but there was no warmth.

“I sleep because I can,” she replied simply. “You should do the same.”

“How?” Damon retorted, his tone rising without him realizing it. “After what happened outside… after what I did?”

Ester tilted her head, studying him like one watching a caged animal.

“What you did, Damon, was survive,” he said, his voice cold. “Do you want to sleep in peace? Then accept that.”

He felt his blood boil, not with hatred for her, but for himself. The echo of the elf’s explosion still burned in his memory—the crack, the interrupted scream, the scattered flesh. And with it, the hot, unbearably pleasurable sensation coming from his own skin.

Damon closed his eyes and sank onto the other bed, the spear still within reach.

The silence returned, heavy. Esther lay down unceremoniously, face down, her stained blue hair resting on the worn pillow.

Damon stared at the ceiling. He heard every heartbeat, every breath, as if his senses were too heightened. The whole world seemed to vibrate around him.

And the voice returned.

“More… more… more.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could squelch the whisper. But it was no use. It was as if something had lodged itself inside him, not a memory, but a hunger.

Sleep came broken, fitful. And it brought nightmares.

Damon found himself in the forest again, but now the snow was red as blood. Ravens perched in the trees cried his name in unison, their human voices high and distorted.

Ahead stood Garrick and Caelan. Not dead, but alive—alive and looking at him.

“You left us,” Garrick said, his face covered in blood.

“You killed us,” Caelan finished, a hole in his chest.

Damon tried to speak, but his mouth filled with blood.

Behind them, the dead horses rose, eyes wide, ribs ripped open, and began walking toward him.

The spear burned in his hand, pulsing as if it had a heart of its own.

And then he saw Ester. Standing in the middle of the field of corpses, her blue hair dripping red, her eyes fixed on him.

“Accept.” “I will be consumed,” she said, her voice echoing like thunder. “Or be consumed.”

The surrounding figures screamed in unison, and Damon raised his spear to defend himself—but as he did, the weapon fused with his arm, digging into his skin as if it were part of him. Pain shot through him like fire, and he screamed until he woke.

The room was dark, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the cracks in the window. Damon’s heart was pounding, his breath shallow. He glanced to the side and saw Esther sleeping, seemingly peaceful.

But something was bothering him.

He looked down at his hand.

The skin was burned, dark, right where he had held the spear.

He ran his fingers over the mark, and a shiver ran down his spine. This wasn’t just a dream. It was growing inside him, seeping into his flesh, wanting more space.

“Control.” — he whispered to himself, trying to believe his own words.

But deep down, he knew there was no control. Not complete. Only temporary containment.

The dawn was slow, drawn out. Damon couldn’t sleep again. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching the window and the wisp of smoke rising from the chimneys outside.

He thought about Garrick’s eyes. Ester’s smile. The elf’s outburst.

When the first gray light of morning filtered through the window, Ester was already on her feet.

She didn’t look tired. There were no shadows beneath her eyes, no weight of insomnia. On the contrary: she was even cooler, firmer.

“Get up,” she said, without looking at him. “We have a long way to go.”

Damon ran a hand over his face, exhausted.

“Ester…” he began, but his voice faltered. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He didn’t know if he wanted to beg for help or accuse her of destroying what was left of him.

But she didn’t give him any space.

“If you’re going to talk about yesterday, shut up,” she said sternly. “Yesterday is over. Today begins another day.”

He stared at her. Her coldness was a wall he couldn’t break through. But it was also an anchor. As cruel as she was, she was the only one who seemed to know what was happening to him.

Damon sighed, stood slowly, and picked up the spear. The metal felt heavier than ever, but when his fingers wrapped around it, a strange sense of relief coursed through him. As if the weapon were an extension of him.

Ester adjusted her cloak over her shoulders and opened the door.

“Let’s go.”

Damon followed her.

In the hallway, the sounds of the hall were already beginning again: voices, clanging dishes, footsteps. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through, but to Damon, everything smelled of iron, of blood.

As they descended the stairs, he noticed a few glances falling on them. The man in the corner stopped drinking to stare at him, a woman whispered something to her friend, and even the innkeeper watched them silently.

Damon felt his throat dry.

But then Ester’s cold hand touched his arm, firm, almost imperceptible.

He looked at her in surprise.

“Head up,” she said, her lips still still.

And he obeyed.

They crossed the hall like two specters, oblivious to each other’s gaze. The door opened before them, and the icy morning wind enveloped them once more.

The city was already awakening, full of voices, smells, and life. But to Damon, it all seemed like just another battlefield waiting.

And deep down, a truth gnawed at him.

He wanted to fight.

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