The village of Wayford had been dead for seven days.
The fires had burned themselves out by the third morning, leaving nothing behind but blackened timber and walls that leaned at angles no builder would ever trust.
The smoke had lingered for two more days after that, a thick grey blanket that clung to the treetops and refused to leave, as if the village itself was still trying to exhale.
By the fifth day, the smell had become unbearable—not the sharp bite of smoke anymore, but something heavier, sweeter, the kind of scent that made your stomach turn and your throat close up.
The Royal Knights had arrived on the sixth day.
A squad of twelve, dispatched from the nearest garrison after a merchant caravan had stumbled upon the edge of the destruction and refused to go any further. The merchants had seen the smoke first, rising in thin grey pillars against a pale morning sky.
