Under the pale moonlight, the village looked more like a haunted shadow of its day-self.
Kyle followed the woman through the winding, uneven paths that led past rows of dimly lit homes.
The thief walked briskly, keeping her head low and face hidden beneath her hood. Kyle, on the other hand, walked with practiced calm, but his mind remained sharp.
Every footstep was measured. Every flicker of movement caught his attention.
As they drew closer to the so-called temple, Kyle noticed other villagers emerging from their homes in similar attire—hooded cloaks, worn sandals, desperate expressions.
They moved like moths to a flame, their silence heavy with hope and anxiety. Kyle kept his expression unreadable, but his eyes narrowed slightly.
This was not faith. It was dependency bred from manipulation.
They finally reached the building. Kyle stopped in front of it, eyeing the wooden shack that barely stood upright.
