Dong... dong... dong...
The low toll of the shrine's bell shattered the cold morning mist of Whitebridge.
The caravan gathered in the corner of The Sunny Rest's dining room. Lena served a few slices of coarse rye bread and last night's leftover soup—still warm enough to chase away the morning hunger. Outside the window, the village's daily rhythm began to pulse. The sound of footsteps on the cobblestones and the greetings exchanged between neighbors sounded impeccably polite, almost entirely devoid of emotional ripples. Everything was exactly as it had been yesterday; orderly, tranquil, and for some reason, it made Roland increasingly uncomfortable.
"We head to the shrine this morning," Roland whispered before taking a sip of his warm herbal tea. "To meet Pastor Elias."
Lena, who was wiping down the adjacent table, merely offered a slow nod. "Good luck." Her tone was entirely flat—neither friendly nor cold. Yet, there was a strange, unspoken glint in her eyes.
