The morning was gray, with heavy clouds hanging over the small town of stone and wood. The wind carried the smell of smoke from the chimneys and the constant sound of people moving, hammering, and negotiating. Damon walked a few paces behind Ester, his spear resting on his shoulder, watching everything with wary eyes.
Every human heartbeat that passed seemed to pound in his ears. The square teemed with life, but to him, each person was also a reminder of how far he was from being merely human.
Ester, as always, walked unhurriedly and unafraid, oblivious to the stares.
They turned down a side street, and the sound of the crowd faded, giving way to a strong smell of damp hay, dung, and tanned leather. Ahead, a large wooden stable loomed, its roof covered in melting snow, smoke rising from a makeshift forge next door. The sound of neighing horses echoed from within, mixed with the creaking of gates and heavy footsteps in the mud.
