Whoosh...
A low morning breeze swept through Geisterstadt, carrying the scent of barren earth mingled with the thick ash of yesterday's battle.
Roland stood in the courtyard of the town hall. From a distance, his eyes monitored a solemn funeral procession.
Seventeen stiff bodies wrapped in pristine white linen were carried slowly toward the hillside behind the town—an abandoned mine shaft that had been forcefully converted into a cemetery for the fallen heroes of the Pagan Order.
Beside Roland, Dom stood as silent as a stone monument. Naya, meanwhile, lowered her face, her hands clutching each other so tightly that her knuckles turned white. They didn't personally know a single youth who had fallen last night. But they understood the bitter taste of losing comrades on the battlefield. That was more than enough to invite them into the mourning.
Lobrecht stood tall at the edge of the open graves.
