The fog did not lift as the afternoon wore on. It settled deeper into the valley. It clung to the stone walls of the village like wet wool.
Vane walked down the main thoroughfare. His spear rested on his shoulder. His tactical boots made heavy and sucking sounds in the mud. Beside him Isole kept her hood up. She scanned the darkened windows of the cottages with a look of quiet unease.
The village of Mourn-Hold was not dead. But it was dying.
People moved through the mist with the slow and dragging gait of the exhausted. A blacksmith struck a piece of cold iron with a hammer. The rhythm was irregular and weak. A woman hung grey laundry on a line that sagged almost to the ground.
They stopped to watch the two Sentinels pass. Their eyes were hollow. They did not wave or cheer. They simply stared with the dull curiosity of cattle watching a storm roll in.
"They look like the soldier," Isole whispered. "Empty."
