The journey from the encampment to the High Cathedral was short but tense. The city of Strathmore was eerily quiet. Shutters were drawn tight against the plague-ridden air, and the few citizens on the streets hurried along with heads bowed, clutching rags to their faces. The only sound was the rhythmic clatter of the horses' hooves on the old cobblestones.
The Cathedral loomed ahead, a massive structure of grey stone that seemed to pierce the low-hanging clouds. It was a fortress of faith, built centuries ago to withstand sieges both spiritual and physical.
They rode into the courtyard. Grooms in white robes rushed out to take the horses, their faces hidden by hoods. Derek dismounted, his boots hitting the stone with a heavy, authoritative thud. He adjusted his mask, scanning the area. Carlos stumbled a bit as he got down, his sword banging against his thigh, looking less like a soldier and more like a lost tourist.
