The Greenwood Forest was quiet again.
Not the tense, unnatural silence that had filled the forest when the hunters first arrived.
This was the quiet of recovery.
Morning sunlight filtered through the ancient canopy in shimmering golden beams. The towering trees—some thousands of years old—stood like silent guardians of the forest.
Leaves rustled softly in the breeze.
Birdsong slowly returned.
Small woodland creatures cautiously moved between the roots of massive trees.
Nature was reclaiming its calm a very calm atmosphere.
But the scars of yesterday's battle remained.
The valley clearing where John had confronted the hunters still bore the marks of violence.
Several trees had been split or uprooted.
A long trench scorched into the ground marked where his abyssal breath had struck at distance.
Broken weapons and shattered enchantments were scattered across the earth.
Ballista bolts as long as spears lay half-buried in the dirt.
