The village looked the same on the surface: stone streets, wooden houses, the murmur of the river nearby. But beneath that stillness, there was a different air. No one said it aloud, but everyone knew the Dusk Blossom had descended into the abyss. To them, Erian was dead.
Malric heard it on every corner. Women at the market leaned toward each other, whispering in hushed voices.
The elders in the square shook their heads with feigned gravity. Even the children, playing by the riverbank, mocked the unsteady steps of a blind man, laughing as though Erian's tragedy were merely a game.
They said he had died quickly. That the God of Ruin had taken him without mercy. That perhaps, because of that, the village's curse had been lifted for another decade.
Malric walked among them with his heart ablaze. Every word, every rumor burned in his ears.
No one wept. No one truly seemed to mourn Erian's loss. It was as though his death had been expected, even welcomed.
