Chapter 11: The Village
The dirt road leading to Veilmoor was a pale ribbon, crumbling into patches of damp mud covered with dead leaves. The vegetation on the edges seemed to watch them with twisted branches, creaking in the wind like old bones.
Eren Vale walked a step behind Darin, his leg still throbbing under the improvised linen bandage, his torn coat stained with dark blood. Even limping, he showed no signs of stopping.
Nyssa slipped right behind him, almost glued to his good leg, emitting low, contained plops, as if she had learned that too much noise was a risk. She kept herself almost against the ground, her body trembling like living jelly trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable.
The village first appeared as an indistinct cluster of crooked roofs. As they advanced, it revealed its shapes: crumbling wooden houses, moss-covered at the edges, windows boarded up with poorly nailed planks.
The chimneys spewed thin gray smoke, which dissipated in the wind before gaining height. A constant smell of manure, wet wood smoke, old sweat.
People began to emerge as they entered the main street—a muddy path with uneven stones embedded in the mud like broken teeth. At first, just faces peering from behind torn curtains. Then, bolder, stepping onto porches or leaning against door frames. No one spoke. They just watched.
Eren felt the gazes scanning every detail of him: the dirty bandage on his thigh, the blade still stained with dried blood, the torn overcoat, the narrowed, cold eyes.
Nyssa attracted even more attention—a translucent, semi-human creature with pulsating parts covered only by a poorly placed rag, trying to hide behind that young tamer.
People murmured among themselves. Low voices. Words like "monster," "curse," "who’s that?" "is it safe?" spread like mold.
Darin seemed oblivious to all this. He walked with his chest puffed out, trying to disguise his fatigue and anxiety. The improvised staff tapped the ground with each step, creating a rather pathetic rhythm of improvised leadership.
In the center of the village, there was a slightly more open area, with a black trunk stuck in the middle, like a dead monument. Someone had hung melted candles and ribbons with ancient inscriptions—symbols of protection, if anyone asked, but that did nothing.
Darin stopped there.