The town wasn't even marked on most maps. It sat hunched at the edge of two dying trade roads, forgotten between the folds of lowland hills and choked rivers, where the fog came early and the sun always seemed a little too far away. The stone here was soft, brittle from years of rain, and the rooftops sagged with the exhaustion of time. Shutters banged against cracked walls in the wind. Chickens pecked in the mud. The scent of damp wood, sour ale, and boiled grain clung to the air like mildew.
It was a ghost-town with people still in it.
And in its silence, it held something more dangerous than soldiers or spells.
It held Atlas Von Roxweld.
He walked with no fanfare. No escort. Just his cloak, road-dusted boots, and a shadow that didn't quite match the shape of his body. His hood was low, concealing his face, but not so low that he could not see them—the townspeople. Their gazes were like nails hammered into his spine. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just… tired.
They did not speak.
