The sun had barely peeked over the eastern horizon when Lobrecht and Anneliese stood in silence.
Before them sat the sole surviving beacon of life from a village reduced to ash. Pastor Aldus.
The man leaned weakly against the charred, blackened wall of the chapel. His back was bound in thick bandages that already wept crimson. Every time he drew a breath, a sharp, agonizing wheeze escaped his chest.
Hss... hah... Yet, the pastor's light brown eyes—which usually crinkled with a playful smirk over their breakfast potatoes—now radiated a vastly different depth.
"So... the two of you have truly made up your minds to head to the Capital," Aldus spoke softly, his voice raspy, grating against the soot in his throat. It wasn't a question. It was a quiet confirmation of a premonition he had harbored since that hellish night.
