The trail had led them towards a village. It was like a city of ghosts.
Matt felt it before they saw it, a shift in the heaviness of the silence, a weight pressing down on the air. The trees thinned, and the forest opened into a wide valley cradled by ancient hills. And there, scattered across the valley floor like bones left to bleach in the sun, were the remains of what had once been a thriving community.
Homes. Dozens of them. Stone and timber, their roofs collapsed, their walls were blackened by fire. At the outskirts was a central meeting house, its doors hanged open, its windows were dark and empty. Paths that had once been worn smooth by generations of feet were now overgrown with weeds and brambles.
Matt stopped at the edge of the valley. A premonition of loss washed over him. It was the Harkma grieving.
