Strax walked slowly through the streets that were once vibrant. Dust still settled on the black cobblestones, stained with soot and memories. Houses had been reduced to charred wooden skeletons, and makeshift tents stood where squares once were. A baby's cry echoed in the distance, mingling with the metallic sound of hammers rebuilding what the dragons' fire had failed to completely destroy.
Vorah's soldiers worked in silence. Some wore scratched armor, others wore only tunics bearing the local coat of arms—a moon broken in half. Few looked at him, but those who did held their gaze a second longer, as if recognizing a shadow before the form. He needed no introduction.
The breeze carried the smell of burnt wood, dried blood, and hot soup. A strange aroma of tragedy and endeavor. Children ran between tents with thin legs and large eyes, some laughing, others just watching, trying to understand why the world seemed so broken, even under the clear sky.
