Rayah Vandymion
The weight of the sack dragged at my shoulders, each step up the hill sending tremors of pain through my still-weakened body. I felt naked without my arcane energy, yet I refused to let it show, straightening my spine the way I've always known.
I took a moment to look at myself. My once-pristine hands were now calloused, dirt caked beneath my fingernails. My clothes—rags, really—hung loose on my frame, stained with sweat and grime. How disgraceful to be reduced to such a state—hauling cargo like a common porter, fleeing like a frightened lamb.
At the crest of the hill, I turned, my breath catching despite myself.
From this vantage point, the village of Hano spread before me like a morbid carpet. Flames licked at thatched roofs, black smoke billowing against the morning sky. Tiny figures darted between buildings—humans and those lizardy Zotts. Like uncouth animals, they bit at each other's necks.
