Far away from the village, the night had a different smell.
Thick smoke and blood.
In a rough stone building that served as a trading hall, several men sat around a low fire. Weapons leaned against the wall. Skins from rare beasts were hung as trophies.
This was Duskspire's outer trading post, a place where people with no clean hands gathered.
The escaped poacher knelt on the ground, clutching a bowl of hot soup as if it was the most precious thing in the world.
His clothes were torn, and one arm was bandaged with dirty cloth. His face still carried traces of fear.
"I am telling the truth," he said hoarsely. "She was pregnant. Big belly. But she fought like some guardian spirit."
Several listeners exchanged glances.
"Pregnant?" One man with a scar on his chin snorted. "And you let a pregnant woman capture you?"
The poacher's face flushed with shame.
