It was late at night, and the full moon shone brightly over the village gates, bathing the wooden walls and battlements in pale silver light. The usual sounds of an evening in Ashmork were absent. There were no drunken arguments between warriors, no children running through the streets, and no laughter coming from the homes scattered throughout the settlement.
Even the guards stationed along the walls seemed unusually quiet, their gazes lowered as if they were afraid to look at one another.
Near the southern gate, Loki stood motionless, his expression cold and frighteningly still. His finger was buried deep into his palm, his nails stabbing so hard into his flesh that blood slowly dripped between his fingers and fell onto the ground beneath him. He barely seemed to notice the pain. His entire body trembled with restrained rage, his shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath as he stared into the darkness beyond the gate.
