Dietan tells me he tossed and turned all night and didn’t sleep a wink. Regardless, in the morning, there is no more talk of sending me away. Maybe he changed his mind or maybe he’s just tired of arguing.
I knowIam.
Our caravan continues through the outskirts of Loegria. But now, there are no more stops for the Wedding March, no more announcements and cheek kisses.
There’s a war on.
Marcus is surly and quiet, and the soldiers are nervous as well.
The closer to old Estyrion we travel, the grayer the sky becomes. The sun has retreated and is merely a hazy disk behind the clouds.
But even with the sun hiding behind cloud cover, it’s hot here. I take off Dietan’s leather jacket and wipe sweat from my brow.
I wrinkle my nose at the scent of smoke so acrid I can taste it on the back of my tongue. It doesn’t smell like the comforting warm hearths of Evandale. It’s thicker, more acidic, and stings my eyes.
Father used to tell us stories of the Great Waste and how nothing could grow there—a land decimated by Boreas’s magic. When I was a child, it was difficult for me to imagine such a place. I grew up surrounded by lush fields, rolling meadows, and streams full of frogs and fish. It doesn’t feel real until I can see it, and smell it, for myself.
The Great Waste is nothing but desolation.
When we finally arrive in Alba, the westernmost Loegrian city bordering Estyrion, the clouds are thick. The air itself seems to hold its breath, waiting for the release of rain that never comes. It doesn’t look like it’s rained here in centuries. The ground is as cracked as a dry riverbed, and dust settles on every surface. Our hair and clothes are covered, the grit invading every pore.
For a moment, I just take it in.
Alba is eerily quiet for a city. Even the wind doesn’t walk its deserted streets.
It’s almost like a dream—a surreal one.
It’s difficult to discern where the horizon ends and the city begins. Heavy fog blankets most of city, strangling the sunlight. Alba appears to be made of limestone, but now it’s turned a dull gray, mirroring the sky. I can barely make out a few towers beyond the rooftops. In the distance, I can see the shadow of the great bridge is a menacing specter, haunting the road already traveled.
Perhaps at one time, the city was beautiful. Now it’s as still as a graveyard.
Where South Dunston was bustling, Alba is a ghost town. Successive generations of inhabitants must have fled from the Usurper’s troops near Penrith’s border and then from the Mad King in the Waste that used to be Estyrion. The innocents still here are either stubborn, apathetic, or have given up entirely.
The few souls we pass don’t acknowledge us. Their gazes are on their hands as they sharpen their swords, weave grass into rope, or cook small game over open fires. Tears prick the corners of my eyes when I see small faces peer out from dirty windows covered in soot and grime.
Hacking coughs come from behind closed doors, and I wonder if the smoky air will make us all sick, too. I don’t have anything in my healing kit of herbs that can ward off this strange miasma.
Dietan’s dour expression tightens with tension as we walk among these people—his subjects. Does he feel responsible for their well-being, as their prince? Is he witnessing the reality of life in one dark corner of his kingdom, or a portent of what is to come for all of Loegria if we fail?
When he meets my eyes, I can see the despair in his, and I know he’s tearing himself up inside seeing the state of his people, his kingdom.
No one speaks as we walk through the city. The despair is too vast to ignore.
Carts full of belongings have been left abandoned in the streets. Those who fled must have left these behind mid-flight, taking with them only what was necessary for survival. What happened here? How much of a hurry were they in for them to leave their possessions?
What were they running from?
I can tell by the ransacked contents of the carts that they’ve been picked over by those who remained. Nonessentials like vases and some broken children’s toys are all that remain in the overturned crates.
A craggy voice barks down at us from above. “Go! Shoo! Go!”
An old woman waves at us from her balcony, where her clothes are hanging to dry. They are already covered in a fine film of dust.
She throws her arms out, as if trying to scare a rat out of her pantry, but someone from inside grabs her and guides her back in before closing the door. “Leave this accursed place while you still can!” she shouts from inside.
Dietan sighs and keeps walking, but I have a bad feeling about this place.
“All right,” says Marcus. “The temple is this way.”
