Three hours later, the group trudged into Millbrook village looking like a funeral procession.
Tikon led the way, his face twisted in an expression somewhere between constipation and rage. Behind him, the others carried sacks—heavy sacks filled with bread they'd purchased from a traveling merchant at triple the normal price.
Moldy bread, as it turned out. The merchant had seen them coming a mile away.
"I can't believe we're doing this," the shorter thug muttered, adjusting the sack on his shoulder. "We're hunters. We kill things. We don't... we don't 'help' people."
"We also don't usually get scammed by the universe itself," his brother replied bitterly. "So here we are."
The village square was mostly empty—just a few scattered residents going about their morning routines. Simple folk. Farmers, craftsmen, the kinds of people who'd never left their hometown and probably never would.
They looked up as the group of armed strangers entered, immediately suspicious.
