In the desolate corners of the West, a lonely dirt road flowed silently toward the horizon.
Along the road, sun-scorched, withered grasses bowed their heads, and cracked stones lay half-buried in the parched earth.
On the road, a man was moving forward atop an exhausted horse.
His clothes were old; covered in dust, torn in places.
Dried bloodstains could be seen scattered across the fabric.
This man was Cean, the only surviving guard of the caravan.
Ravien had spared him, tasking him to deliver a message to the lord of Lacrima City.
After days of endless travel, he was finally nearing the city.
The city had been built behind thick stone walls.
The houses stood close together, most of them single or double-story buildings, their roofs made of adobe and lime.
Some walls were cracked, and paint peeled off in patches.
The narrow, winding streets were paved with stone.
Small markets were set up at various corners, selling fruits, fabrics, and leather goods.
