North

Morning came with clear skies.

For the first time in days, Durn felt no need to stop.

No strange silence.

No unusual tracks.

No lingering feeling that something had been overlooked.

The forest greeted him with familiar sounds.

Birds argued overhead.

A pair of foxes disappeared into the brush.

The wind carried the scent of pine and fresh rain from somewhere beyond the hills.

It was enough.

He smiled to himself.

Not because he had found answers.

Because the forest was still capable of surprising him.

By midday, he reached a rocky overlook where much of northern Feralas stretched out before him. Dense forests rolled toward distant mountains, broken only by winding rivers and scattered ruins left behind by civilizations long forgotten.

Durn removed the leather journal from his pack.

For a long while, he simply held it.

Nine days.

Nine pages.

Very few answers.

He read the entries one final time.

Not searching for certainty.

Only reminding himself of what he had seen.

The forest changed.

Sometimes for reasons he understood.

Sometimes for reasons he did not.

That had always been true.

Yet something felt different now.

Not louder.

Not darker.

Simply...

closer.

He closed the journal and looked toward the northern horizon.

There was no trail waiting for him.

No voice calling his name.

No vision pointing the way.

Only the quiet conviction that his journey through Feralas was not yet over.

Perhaps he would find nothing.

Perhaps every strange silence would eventually reveal an ordinary explanation.

He hoped so.

More than anything, he hoped so.

But hope was no reason to stop looking.

Durn fastened the journal to his belt and adjusted the weight of his pack.

Without another glance behind him, he turned north and disappeared beneath the ancient canopy.

The forest breathed.

And Durn chose to listen.