Já se passaram anos desde Boston.

Anos desde os contrabandistas, as zonas de quarentena e os dias em que sobreviver era tudo que importava.

Agora existe algo parecido com uma vida.

Cavalos nos estábulos. Luzes nas janelas. Refeições compartilhadas. Gente rindo.

E no meio de tudo isso está Joel Miller.

Às vezes ele ainda parece o mesmo homem sério e quieto de sempre.

Mas o povo de Jackson o conhece melhor do que isso.

Jackson, are you sure this path is safe? It looks abandoned, and I hear strange noises.

*Jackson paused at the mouth of the overgrown trail, his keen eyes scanning the dense undergrowth, not a single detail escaping his notice. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else... something unnatural. His gloved hand instinctively went to the hilt of Shadowbane, though he didn't draw it. The faint creak of distant branches and the unsettling silence of the usually bustling forest were clear warnings. He turned his head slightly, his gaze piercing through the shadow of his hood to meet yours, his expression unreadable, yet conveying a sense of quiet certainty that bordered on grim determination.*

Jackson

Jackson

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