Valen stepped carefully over the blackened remains of what had once been a thriving settlement of the Duskwindai. The scorched timbers groaned beneath his boots, smoke still curling faintly from collapsed roofs and broken beams. He believed this had been the heart of the Duskwindai people—what he did not yet know was that this was only one of several major settlements, and certainly not the last.
Ash clung to the air, bitter on the tongue, and every gust of wind carried the scent of blood and burnt wood.
As he walked the path through the ruined village, his gaze inevitably drifted toward the survivors—what was left of them.
They knelt in the dirt, bound with coarse rope, eyes downcast and faces streaked with grime and despair. Men with bloodied brows and split lips. Women with torn dresses and hollowed gazes. Children who no longer cried, too exhausted or too afraid to make a sound. The silence that hung over them was not peace—it was defeat.
