Someone had spent some serious time and money building a ridiculous chapel in the middle of nowhere.

The four arrived in the village for the second time just past dawn. Covered in mud, stripped of their mounts, and wrapped in wet cloaks, they fit in well with the impoverished locals. Kolby led them to the monastery and beat on the door four times before it opened.

Holding the wood back but a crack and sticking his bald-patched head out, a monk grimaced at them. “Back so soon?”

“Might we come in?” Kolby asked and started forward.

“Why?” the monk asked, holding the door firm.

Kolby furrowed his brow. “Because it’s cold and wet, and we’d appreciate the chance to dry ourselves.”

Once more, Kolby pushed on the door, and once more the monk held fast—likely had his foot jammed against the base. Kolby wasn’t big, but Farilane knew he was strong, and she didn’t envy the monk’s foot.

“This isn’t a public house. You need to leave. Go away. You’re not wanted here.” With that, the monk slammed the door.

Even though Kolby beat on the wood again, the monk refused to open. Kolby gave up and rubbed the reddened heel of his hand.

Farilane faced the village. As always, farmers were out early. Girls tended cows, boys cut wood, men and women—drawn by the banging—paused to watch the strangers. What kind of life is this? Farilane studied the dirt-smeared cheeks and tired eyes. Up and out of bed at—no, she corrected herself—before dawn. These close-to-the-dirt people had to drop their bare feet onto cold ground well before sunrise. They shivered until the fire was lit, cold wind coming through glassless windows. Who am I kidding? The wind likely comes just as easily through the copious gaps in their walls. Then they haul water, dig in the dirt, and fight off flies and mosquitoes. Or not. On their first trip through, she recalled seeing a little boy covered in flies. A person can get used to anything, I guess—if you have to.

Then Farilane focused on a girl who had more than dirt on her face. Her left cheek and eye were purple, yellow, and swollen. Not the same girl as last time. This one is taller, and the bruises are on the other side.

“They steal our horses, trash our supplies, and now deny us common hospitality,” Virgil complained. “I realize they didn’t want us raiding their vault, but this is just spiteful.”

“We don’t know for a fact that they were responsible,” Kolby said.