"No wonder…" the scrawny man murmured, looking down at his rough, filthy hands. 'So my life… it wasn't just spared. It was… saved in passing by someone that important.'
"May Oriane bless that great man," the old man said softly, his hands forming a crude prayer gesture over his chest.
The others silently followed suit, their expressions incredibly devout.
Just as the small group under the hovel prayed in hushed tones, the sound of dense, rhythmic footsteps drew near, shattering the area's brief tranquility.
The refugees were like startled birds, instantly thrown into a panic.
The scrawny man shot to his feet.
The woman holding the child turned deathly pale. She clutched the child tightly to her chest, cowering as she shuffled toward the deepest part of the hovel.
The young man subconsciously reached for his waist, where there was only a hard, cold stone.
