The wind pressed through the gaps in the rotting wooden planks, carrying with it the hollow scent of dust and long-forgotten earth. The moon's pale light barely reached the far corners of the shack, but it was enough to glint faintly off the medallion that hung against the old man's chest.
Eron stood there, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned. The air between them was taut—thick enough to choke on.
"You're going to tell me everything," Eron said, his voice rough, almost breaking. "Those bodies… that's your family, isn't it? Or were. And here I was, thinking you were just a bitter old man with too many insults in his head. But no. No, you're worse."
The old man didn't immediately respond. He stared at Eron, eyes clouded, unreadable—like the mist that hung low over marshes before dawn.
