Judas reached the house of the Village Head. The smell hitting him from the porch was foul—a thick, suffocating mix of cheap ale, stale sweat, and the sharp copper tang of fresh blood.
He pushed the door open.
The interior was dimly lit by a dying lantern, its flickering light casting long, dancing shadows over a scene of absolute depravity.
Harven lay on the floor. The old Village Head was naked and lifeless, his body twisted on the floorboards, his face frozen in a silent scream.
His backside was mutilated, a mess of torn flesh and blood that confirmed the twisted nature of the men who had taken over his home.
Opposite the corpse sat a man. A jagged scar ran along his chin. He was stark naked, lounging in Harven's best wooden chair with a tankard of ale in his hand.
He appeared heavily intoxicated, his eyes glazed and unfocused as he stared at the ceiling.
