The further he walked, the quieter it got.
Not the calm kind of quiet, more like sound itself had gotten tired of echoing here. The kind that settled into his bones and made his breath feel too loud.
Ashwing hadn't said anything in minutes.
The buildings were different now, taller, more symmetrical. Black stone mixed with something smoother, paler, bone maybe, or whatever passed for it in this part of the world. Some towers didn't have doors.
Some had dozens. None looked like they were made for people.
The sky above was still that pale grey, like smoke that had forgotten how to burn.
Then he saw the flags.
Three of them, hung high above a narrow courtyard.
Torn, but still hanging.
No wind, but they moved, slightly, like they swayed to something deeper in the air than breeze.
Lindarion stepped into the square, keeping his head low, hood still up. No one else was there. No voices. Just the flags and the buildings hunched around them.
He stared.
Dark red cloth.
