Flames always die down.
As time passed, the fire visibly weakened, and the people grew increasingly anxious.
"..."
Their bodies were itching to move. Their minds were already mapping out routes, calculating which neighboring houses were empty. Two hours was more than enough time to ransack someone else's home.
But their bodies wouldn't move. Their feet wouldn't budge. Even making an excuse about feeling unwell to leave the square felt too conspicuous.
Anyone who left would become one who coveted others' possessions; someone who followed the legion's 'order.' It was tantamount to following an orc's directive, stealing from the dead, and casting away the last shred of conscience they had as human beings.
"Ngh..."
