Fleeing straight into the dark shadows of the Golduin Forest proved to be a bad move almost as soon as Garon had stepped foot into the woods. He had wasted no time in packing anything, not even a knife or a cloak, and the sun was quickly failing. He barely remembered his last taste of food from the day before; he felt weak and close to collapse. The forest was parched and brittle, without a stream to be seen, and his mouth had long since gone dry. His sudden freedom tasted far more bitter than he ever imagined.
Not even a week had passed since his last attempt at escape from Makwyr's house. Garon still had the bruises from the beating that ensued, and they along with the rest of his body ached from his harried flight. Or at least he felt harried. Makwyr's body lay cold in his bed, just as Garon had found him. The adept's abode, being so far removed from the walls of Westron town, would not be investigated anytime soon. Makwyr was reclusive and maintained few if any connections with any