in poor condition, with gaunt faces and weather-beaten hands. No one here was doing particularly well, but they weren’t starving either. It seemed things weren’t quite as bad as one might think.
Elder Jome lived on the very outskirts of the village, by the path leading to the local cemetery. The priest had mentioned that it was the old man who looked after the graves. This, alongside his seniority, explained his familiarity with the villagers. After all, everyone was destined to end up on that small, stony hill.
Darius stopped at the edge of the village. At least, that’s what it seemed to be. Whilst the northern entrance had a low wall and a palisade, here the defences were limited to a low embankment made of rough-hewn stones piled one on top of the other. In the middle of this, gods help us, fortification gaped a gap through which ran a narrow path leading uphill between the rocks.
Between the large stones, the colonel spotted the walls of a sandstone hut. The small cottage clung to a high rock that shielded it from the fierce southern sun. Paradoxically, being situated higher than the others, it might well have been a far more pleasant place to live. There was no time to wait, and they set off towards their destination.
Bleist stood on the threshold of the dwelling, almost completely drenched in sweat, even despite using protective spells that should have significantly reduced his perception of the heat. The armour was of no help at all, even though it was covered in a multitude of spells.
Darius took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Silence fell, broken only by the heavy breathing of the Guardsmen. After a moment, the colonel knocked louder, and only then did a sound come from inside.
The door was opened by a gaunt old man with dark skin, a deeply wrinkled face further marked by age spots, clad only in a loincloth. At first, it seemed as though the man could see very little, but after a moment, terror spread across his face and
