Magodilin hadn't changed. The same crooked rooftops rose above dusty streets, the same pale mist curled around the cracked walls of the old fortress at its center. The villagers still stared when Stephan and Olath arrived, but the fear that once gripped them was gone. Now, there was something like acceptance in their eyes, a reluctant respect, perhaps even admiration for the man who had gone into the Soul Desert and returned alive.
But it wasn't Stephan who drew the most attention this time. It was her.
Death walked behind him, calm and poised, her long violet hair flowing like moonlight. Her eyes glowed faintly violet, and the black horns curving from her head made her seem otherworldly. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Mothers pulled their children close. Some men dropped their tools, staring as if she were a ghost pulled from a forgotten legend.
Stephan stopped in the middle of the street, folding his arms. "They'll get used to her," he murmured.
