The village was called Elderwood—a name that probably sounded majestic at some point in history. Now, it looked like a place people only stayed in because they had no other choice.
By the time they arrived, the sun had slunk behind the mountains, leaving behind a bruised sky—deep purples and fading oranges smeared across the horizon. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke, and an unsettling silence hung over the place, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl.
Elderwood was... a mess.
The dirt roads were uneven, scattered with broken carts and barrels that no one had bothered to move. The houses, if you could even call them that, had missing shingles, crooked doorframes, and some even had entire sections of their roofs caved in. A few villagers stood outside, huddled together, whispering in hushed tones, while others peeked from behind cracked windows, their faces a mix of exhaustion and barely-contained fear.
