The evening light was fading, stretching shadows across the village of Govean as the sun dipped below the far edge of the horizon. Luke stood at the outskirts of the settlement, his gaze locked on the desolate stretch of land that sprawled southward. Locals called it the Wasteland—a fitting name, given the barren plains and cracked earth that seemed to extend endlessly into the foggy distance.
He had learned about it through casual conversation, mingling with the villagers during the day. They said the wasteland was lifeless for miles, save for the occasional gnarled tree or splintered rock formation. Nothing grew there. Nothing thrived. And those who ventured too far often never returned. Stories told of bandits staking hidden paths, wild beasts prowling under the cloak of darkness, and whispers of black-robed figures spotted at night—figures that vanished before dawn.
