The silence between Eron and the old man was a thick, choking thing. Dust drifted in the stale air of the crumbling room, motes catching the last light of the setting sun that leaked through the cracks in the boarded window.
Eron's breathing was ragged. His fists were clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms hard enough to leave crescent marks. He wanted to punch the old man in the face—wanted to scream until his throat gave out—but the words spilling out instead were sharp, shaking things.
"The people you see outside they are all illusion. They don't exist anymore. But there was a time when they were alive. I was the one who brought them all here. In this cursed village."
"You knew," Eron said, his voice low, trembling with barely contained rage. "You knew what was gonna happen to them. You didn't just know—you brought them here. You brought them all to there death."
The old man's brow furrowed. "Watch your tone, boy."
