The area near their target was a dead zone—plain and simple. Just one street over, life carried on like normal, but here? It was like the village itself had given up.
Sand clung to the cracked streets, piling up in doorways, blown in by winds that whispered through shattered windows. Not a soul lingered. No stray felines. No beggars. Nothing. The silence was thick, only broken by the occasional rattling of some forgotten sign.
Maybe the locals knew something. Maybe they could feel it. Like a wound on the village's skin. A cancer. And no one wanted to get too close. Especially not at night.
Malik, the priest, and Layla were the only ones who dared, or, well, bothered to do so.
Though Layla almost couldn't. After hours of begging and promised assurances, she had barely gotten permission from her father.
At the end, even after accepting her going, he stopped her outside the inn, telling her to stay, but she'd somehow wormed her way into this "little adventure" anyway.
