A solitary bell began to toll in the distance, drifting across the village. Vilon stood outside, drawing a long, crisp breath of fresh air into his lungs for the first time since he had opened his eyes.
With the aid of a wooden walker that Owen had somehow managed to procure from the locals, the knight was making a slow, excruciating lap around the settlement.
This was the very place he had been riding toward for days before getting sidetracked by those five brigands down at the creek. It was a peaceful, unassuming hamlet, and unlike the last desolate ruin they had passed through, this place possessed a warm, welcoming air he hadn't expected to find in a war-torn frontier.
Owen had informed him that he'd been unconscious for more than a day after being dragged inside.
