Ash Niclose [2]

The village was smaller than Ash expected.

Just a scatter of moss-stained cottages, crooked fences, and a stone well that leaned like it had grown tired of waiting.

A thin mist hung low over the thatched rooftops, curling around window frames and muting the light of early morning.

Arya waved to a few people who glanced up from their chores, suspicious, tired, but not surprised to see strangers.

Travelers, perhaps.

Survivors, more likely.

Ash kept his hood low. Not in fear. Just… old instinct.

They passed a shrine on the outskirts, an old tree wrapped with faded ribbons and broken charms. Ash paused, staring at the offerings: bits of bone, carved feathers, wax-sealed letters never sent.

"Still believe in gods here?"

He asked quietly.

Arya shrugged.

"Some do. Some just need somewhere to put their hope. Even if it doesn't listen."

Ash didn't reply. He understood the difference.