Sylfir watches through the window as the sun inches ever closer to the horizon in the west—the day inching ever closer to night. Ivan's house is rendered a silhouette against the sunset. She didn't have the time to see if he and his brothers came to the tavern, but she reckons their father is the only one that remains in the farmhouse—he doesn't seem the sort to take part in such revelry.

Stepping away from the window, she peels her gaze away from the outside world for a moment, looking at her belongings tucked away in her room. She reaches for spare clothes, her bow and quiver, hunting knives, and remaining odd bits and pieces, placing what will fit in her pack. She secures her quiver to her hip and slings her bow across her shoulder before catching sight of her antler crown lying still on the wooden desk.

It is a treasured possession, a gift from her father. More often than not, she handles it like she does everything else, but now when she touches it, it is with the same reverence she had when it was first given to her.

It has been years since she spoke with her father—years since they beheld each other with their own eyes. She should never have let that come to pass, she now realises.

She places her antler crown on her head, then takes her spear, resting beside the door, in a firm grip. But as she reaches for the door handle, she realises she can't walk through the tavern. Everyone will know at once that she means to leave for good, and she knows they would not abide by it.

Instead, Sylfir turns to the window, opening it and exposing the room to a gentle summer breeze. She stands back and lets the bliss of transformation take her, wisps of golden primal magic licking her skin, causing it to sprout black feathers, changing its shape until arms become wings, feet become talons, and her mouth becomes a beak.

She is a raven again, and she takes flight on black wings, fluttering free from the window and arcing through the air to fly toward the stables on Alfie's farm. Bob still waits for her with growing impatience, and as she gets closer, crossing the meadow, she can see the irritation plain in his behaviour. She feels bad for making him wait so long.

She beats her wings harder to create more speed; the wind whipping past her avian form, rustling her flight and tail feathers. Soon she hovers over the commons, and she dives toward the stables where Bob takes notice of her.

She perches on the wooden fence of his stall, but he doesn't recognise her like this. She sees his eyes turn curious, and he lifts his upper lip, exposing his gums, raising his head slightly.

When he has her scent, though, his eyes brighten with recognition, and he nickers. Sylfir bobs her head up and down, hoping he understands she has come to free him from his boredom before she flies to the stable gates.

She perches atop them, pecking at the simple lock, lifting it, and the gate winds open from its own weight.

Now she must saddle Bob. She flies to the ground where her golden aura transforms her from her avian form to her natural elven one, and she ventures deeper into the stables, farther back past the geldings where the equipment is kept.

She soon finds her saddle and reins, and she takes it in her firm grip, carrying it to Bob's stall. When she opens his gate, he comes to her willingly, still nickering, and presents himself for it.

Sylfir saddles him and secures her belongings to him—her pack, her bow and quiver, and other bits and pieces—then leads him out to the commons by the reins.

They walk with a languid pace across the commons, passing Alfie's home. She uses Bob to obscure herself from the villagers' sight as they approach the church, but none of them have eyes for her anyway—when she hits the main road, they're still angling to get into the Weary Wanderer. Sylfir slips by with no one noticing.

She continues up the road at a relaxed pace. As she clears the village, it hits her that she is leaving. She looks back one more time as if to sear the memory of its broken buildings and dirt streets into the very matter of her brain before bringing her eyes forward again.

An aching sadness worms its way into her heart with every step she takes toward the west. It feels wrong to go without so much as a goodbye... because she knows that the people here deserve better. Khaliss deserves better, and so does Ivan.

Deep in her heart, she knows this is an act of cowardice. There are many excuses that swim in her skull—a thousand justifications for her actions—but there are just as many ways in which they ring hollow. Still, she continues on.

Bob turns his head toward her. It is only a subtle shift, but she knows him well enough to understand that he has noticed her melancholy. He comes closer, just a little, and she lets go of the reins to pet his nose. He doesn't know how much she appreciates him.

"Thank you," she whispers.

The sunlight is glaring now, casting the sky aflame in a glorious orange-red sunset. A final conflagration before the world as she sees it is consigned to hours of darkness. It feels like the sun is setting on this chapter of her life. She gets the feeling that it was too short-lived. 

An inescapable yearning ripples through her.

As the farmhouse gets closer, her doubt grows. Should she pass that threshold, she will never see Ivan again. She doesn't know that she can do this.

Her steps falter, and Bob stops beside her, looking at her through curious eyes. He bows his head and nudges her shoulder.

"I'm fine," she says, cooing. She pets him again, this time running her fingers through his mane. "I'm fine. Let's keep going."

And so they resume the journey, but she still feels her aching doubt. She's getting closer and closer, close enough to make out the finer details of the house despite the brilliance of the sun behind it.

Her heart hammers in her chest. Is she making a mistake?

She doesn't stop walking, but she slows down. Remaining on the main road, she looks at the farmhouse with longing—this was the first place she stopped by when she first arrived. Ivan's father was the first person she talked to. He's likely the only one inside, and yet she cannot do the courtesy of even telling him goodbye.

No. She has to continue on. If she speaks to him, then maybe she'll be convinced to remain.

The closer she gets, the stronger the incense-infused rot-stink of the dead beast is. It should be cause for her to quicken her steps, yet she can't. Her hesitation weighs her down.

Still, she passes the eastern wall of the house. She is passing the threshold. Her eyes flick over the beast's half-decomposed corpse, then fixate on the rolling hill farther west—the hill from which she first gazed upon the village of Summerfall. When she reaches the flattened ground on the other side, it will be the last time she sees this place.

Tears sting her eyes.

But she presses forward. She passes the western wall of the house, where a wisp of incense smoke billows upward from the kitchen window. As far as she is concerned, she has broken the bounds of the village proper. She has left Summer—

A yowling meow pierces the air, and Sylfir frowns. She and Bob stop in their tracks and turn to see the shaggy black cat—Tom. He meows again, louder this time, and Sylfir puts her hands up as if to capitulate or calm the creature down.

"Quiet," she says.

If he can understand her, then he ignores her plea. He meows again, louder than before, and she grits her teeth. She thinks to turn on her heels, but just before she does, the door opens.

Ivan pokes his head through, his expression awash with annoyance as his eyes dart to the cat, but then he catches sight of Sylfir.

His eyes widen, and his annoyance gives way to shock. Sylfir imagines she wears the same expression. Rendered still as statues in their stupor, they just stare at each other.

"Sylf?"

She doesn't say anything. She can't. He comes to her anyway.

His steps are cautious, and as he looks at her, she gets the feeling he is asking for permission to approach through his very gaze.

She could never deny him. Not in her heart. The tension from her form bleeds away, and it seems to encourage him to come closer. Deep down, it is what she wants, and there is a selfish part of her that hopes he understands this, even as she seeks to tear herself away from him.

"You're... leaving? Now?"

"I—I am." Her voice is barely louder than a whisper, crippled by her growing shame.

Then there is silence, but Ivan doesn't need to speak. She can see the anguish on his face, knowing that she was going to leave without so much as a word of farewell. She wants to reach out... but that would only encourage him. It would only give him hope. Better... better that she severs ties now to let him move on. He will find someone else, in time.

"You... did you go to the Wanderer?"

She can hear the waver in his voice, and it makes her heart pang with sorrow. Gods... this hurts beyond compare.

"I did," she says.

He looks at Bob, still standing beside her, then to the pack secured to him.

"I suppose that's the only way you could get your bounty... Khaliss told me you were busy in the forest today."

She nods.

Bob, however, can't seem to abide by Ivan's melancholy. He nickers for attention, angling his head toward him.

Ivan reaches out to pet him, his sadness punctuated with a wan smile as his fingers brush against Bob's nose. His attention doesn't remain on the destrier for long, though, as his stormy blue eyes flick back to Sylfir.

She almost squirms under his expectant gaze—his irises like swirling seas, speaking to the turmoil buried within him. She knows he's looking for a sign.

"I... thought you would be at the tavern too," she says, trailing off with nervous laughter. "I thought your father would be the one at home."

Ivan shakes his head. "My brothers convinced him to go, somehow. I suppose he saw we had reason to celebrate."

Sylfir hums. "But not you?"

Suddenly, he can't look at her. "I wasn't in the mood."

Sylfir remains quiet. She knows it's because of her. She knows she is breaking his spirit. The thought makes her weak; she feels as though she could fall before him right now and turn into a puddle of tears, but somehow she holds on to her composure.

Despite her cruelty, he finds enough courage to meet her gaze.

"You know, you're always welcome here."

She nods, pressing her lips together to suppress their trembling.

"I know."

He seems to search her face. He's still looking for that sign.

"I'm going to miss you."

His voice is gentle, but it is like a sledgehammer to her thin, stony façade. She feels her face contort against her will, lines carved into her skin by her anguish, and she squeezes her eyes shut. Her sorrow steals the words from her mouth and bleeds her of courage. She can't look him in the face.

"Sylf—"

She goes to him, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tight. She buries her face in the crook of his neck and wills herself not to cry. This man, who gave her a second chance at life—who risked everything when she was the one who was supposed to save him—is the same man for whom she would show such contempt?

She can't do it. She can't believe she ever thought she could. She squeezes him tighter.

And she feels him squeeze back. He wraps his arms around her and lets his hands trail across her back. One hand goes higher, caressing the nape of her neck, his finger gently scratching her skin. The sensation of his touch translates to purest affection.

It calms her. She doesn't squeeze so hard anymore. She sighs as she feels the tension slowly leave her body with every circle Ivan traces on her skin. If she could, she would spend eternity in his arms.

But she can't. The time comes when she finally withdraws from him, and now when she looks him in the face, she sees that terrible glimmer of hope. He reaches out for her again, his hand inching toward her face, seeking to cup her cheek.

She takes it by the wrist in her gentle grip before he can touch her again, and urges him to take her hand instead. She plays with his fingers for a moment, and they curl, trying to clasp hers as if to reel her in.

She resists.

"Goodbye, Ivan."

She lets go of his hand, then turns her back on him. She doesn't wait for a reply as she takes one step westward, then another and another, keeping her eyes fixed on the gently sloping hill as she listens to the sound of Bob's hooves behind her, each beat like the thumping of her aching heart.