"Milady needs a proper place to live; that is the face of the territory." Isaac maintained his usual taciturn silence, his weather-beaten face revealing not a hint of emotion.
He withdrew his gaze that was observing the towering black stone castle in the distance, gently spurred his horse's belly, and firmly led the group forward, turning a deaf ear to the cicada-like nagging of his short companion.
This time returning, Isaac's group was quite substantial. Aside from him and the Dwarf architect Barrett, behind them were hundreds of slaves dressed in rags, their skin deeply tanned from the sun and wind, but in their eyes, a glimmer of hope for survival still flickered. Accompanying them were a few dilapidated horse-drawn carriages piled high with supplies and food, their unlubricated axles emitting an ear-piercing creaking sound, grinding deep ruts into the hard, dry ground.
