Captain of the Guard Adams pulled his leather armor tighter, but the damned wind still chilled him to the bone.
'What wretched weather.'
His gaze swept over the withered, yellow plains. Where lush wheat fields should have been growing, not a single sprout could now be seen. In the distance, the villages were as silent as tombs, showing no signs of life.
Despair was the only thing still growing in this land.
Just then, the sound of carriage wheels broke his train of thought.
A convoy was slowly approaching from the end of the dirt road. Adams's stomach clenched. His greatest fear was that desperate, infected people would try to force their way through the checkpoint—it wouldn't be the first time, and every clash meant his brothers getting injured, or even killed.
His hand subconsciously tightened around his spear, but his palm was slick with sweat. It felt as if this damned plague had already drained all his strength.
