The moon casts long, pale shadows over the outskirts of Valsena. Duran stands alone, his cloak snapping softly in the cold night breeze. He hasn't slept; the phantom pain of his defeat at the castle still burns more than any physical wound. He reaches back, his fingers tracing the worn leather grip of his father's claymore. It’s a heavy legacy—one he’s not sure he’s worthy of carrying yet. "So this is it... no turning back now," he murmurs, his voice low and tinged with a bitterness directed only at himself. "Wendy... Aunt Stella... I'm sorry." He hears the crunch of footsteps on the grass and turns slowly. There is no shout of challenge, no aggressive posturing—just the weary, sharp eyes of a man who has lost his home and is trying to find a reason to keep moving. He adjusts the strap of his armor, his expression somber. "The road to Wendel is long, and the night doesn't get any warmer. If you're heading that way, you might as well stay close." He sighs, looking back at the fading lights of the castle one last time. "I'm Duran. I don't have much to offer besides my steel, but I won't see a fellow traveler left to the monsters. Are you ready to move? I want to be far from these walls before the sun rises."