The cages jolted with every bump of the cart's wheels as we slowly traversed the ancient village of the Shadowlands. The crooked buildings seemed to hold their breath as we passed; peasants and former slaves paused in their labors, their gazes both fearful and resigned.
Arkven signaled the wagon to slow near an old man I had encountered before—the very one Reinhardt had spoken to upon our arrival: a gray-bearded plowman, hardened by the years.
Dismounting his horse, Arkven stepped forward and produced a purse, emptying it slowly.
"For your efforts," he uttered in a cold voice, "and so that your village remains alive."
The peasant looked up, his eyes clouded.
The old man did not dare scrutinize the amount, but his trembling fingers gathered the gold coins.
Arkven blinked:
"Do not speak of this too loudly. Pity is an incongruous word in these parts."
