Tacit sat in the cold dark, his back to the stone, watching the last of the embers die in the fire. The rabbit he’d caught in the trap remained skinned and uncooked on a rock next to him. He wasn’t hungry. He couldn’t eat. Four days ago he had been under the guidance of a master. Now he was alone. Once more alone.
He listened the sounds of the forest, the rustle of the wind through the trees, the screech of an owl. Everything seemed alive, distinct, precise. It felt as if Tacit could hear even a pin drop in that wilderness.
The lights which had come upon him were gone. If they had been fire, they were unlike any flames Tacit knew. They’d left no mark, his clothes remained whole, his body unhurt. But as Tacit sat in the dark and listened to the night and his thoughts, he realised that the flames had left a mark of sorts on him. They had purged him of doubt, invigorated his body and for the first time in many years his mind was clear.
Far off a lone wolf howled. He knew exactly how the wolf felt.