The village gates closed behind them with a heavy thud that felt more like a prison seal than protection.
Marcus scanned the interior as they walked.
Thornwick was small, maybe two hundred people total if he was being generous. The buildings were old but maintained, wooden structures that had weathered decades of use. People moved through the streets with practiced caution, eyes downcast, conversations hushed.
The elder led them toward the center of the village where a larger building stood—probably a meeting hall or tavern. His name was Garek, and he walked carefully, keeping his head down.
"You'll forgive the reception," Garek said quietly.
"We've learned to be cautious with strangers."
"Ashfang patrols?" Marcus asked.
Garek's expression darkened. "Every now and then like clockwork. They take whoever they want. Young, old, doesn't matter. We've lost fifteen people in the past year alone."
Liz stopped walking. "Fifteen people? Why haven't you fought back?"
