The journey back to the Wailing Woods felt different.
Perhaps it was because the path had become familiar. Perhaps it was because the burden on his shoulders felt lighter with the 1,000 gold coins neatly stored in Dayat's manifestation dimension. Or perhaps it was because of Dola, who throughout the trip constantly alternated between driving, teasing, and sleeping on Dayat's shoulder—making time pass by unnoticed.
But there was one thing that did not change: the Wailing Woods remained the Wailing Woods.
Dark. Damp. Full of sulfur mist that made the throat feel sore if inhaled for too long. Black trees loomed on both sides of the path they passed, occasionally the howl of a Thorned Howler could be heard from a distance—too far to be a threat, but close enough to remind them that they were not alone in this place.
Dayat drove with one hand, the other resting on his thigh. His eyes were focused ahead, but his mind drifted everywhere.
