The morning after the raid, Windmere looked like a ghost village. Ash drifted in the air like snow, coating broken beams and burned wagons. Aric helped dig shallow graves until his hands blistered. He could not meet the eyes of the children who had lost parents.
When the last body was laid to rest, the stranger beckoned. "We leave now."
Mira, stubborn as always, was already packed, a satchel slung over her shoulder. "If Aric goes, I go."
The old man's name was Edran, though few spoke it with ease. His presence was unsettling, yet no one stopped him when he led Aric and Mira out of the village. The road wound east through hills still wet with storm rain.
Aric glanced back only once. Windmere's smoke spiraled into the gray sky, a marker of a life that was gone forever.