The streets of Euclid were quiet beneath the pale light of the moon, the snow crunching softly under each step. Trafalgar walked at a steady pace beside Vincent, offering his arm when the old man faltered. The wooden prosthetic creaked faintly with every movement, a reminder that survival came with a price.
'He still hasn't gotten used to it,' Trafalgar thought, glancing down. 'If this had happened in the Morgain estate, one of the top Healers could've restored his leg. But Euclid doesn't have that kind of luxury. This is as far as medicine goes here.'
Fortunately, the walk wasn't long. Just a short distance from the book stall, Vincent stopped in front of a row of modest houses. They were all the same: identical structures built quickly after the dragon's attack, practical but lacking character. Still, they stood as proof of recovery—Mordrek's reconstruction crews had made sure no survivor was left without shelter.
