The town was quiet.
Too quiet.
A gentle wind drifted through the empty streets, brushing against shattered walls and broken doors as though mourning the countless souls that had perished during the night.
The ground was soaked, not with rain, but with blood.
Human blood had pooled and flowed along the mud roads, forming dark, sticky streams that converged at the center of the street.
The silence stretched endlessly, heavy enough to suffocate.
Anyone standing there might have believed the town had already become a graveyard.
Yet the sharp, metallic stench of freshly spilled blood permeated the air, thick and choking, refusing to let such an illusion persist.
Pain lingered everywhere.
Grief clung to the settlement like a parasite, burrowing into the walls, the streets, and the hearts of the survivors.
Mornings were supposed to bring hope, confidence, renewal, and promise. The bright sky was meant to chase away fear and restore order.
