Four months later.
The first light of dawn had yet to touch the land. The world was still bathed in the silvery haze of night's end, the air thick with morning dew that clung to the leaves and misted the ground like a veil.
In the heart of the Whitewood, the door of a small cabin creaked open, its aged wood groaning softly beneath the push of a hand that now bore strength beyond mortal reckoning.
A figure emerged, so tall he had to bow his head beneath the lintel. He strode into the cold embrace of the dawn. The earth seemed to hush at his passing.
