The elf gave a slight nod, turned on her heel, and they left the tunnel without another word.
Once outside, a rush of fresh air hit them like a slap to the face—sharp and invigorating after the clammy suffocation of the interior. The night wind brushed against their skin, gentle but not enough to wash away the stench.
The village lay in an eerie silence, heavy with the thick reek of blood and scorched flesh. Death hung in the air—dense, almost touchable. The ground was blackened with soot, ashes, and sticky puddles.
Maggie frowned as she felt something odd beneath her boot. She looked down and grunted.
She had stepped into a wide pool of blood. Still warm.
Right next to it, the body of a hobgoblin lay twisted on the ground, its head cleanly severed and resting a bit farther away, mouth frozen in a stunned expression. A clean, precise decapitation.
"That's not us," she muttered.
