The carriage wheels crunched to a halt on frost that should have been trampled by eager feet. Landre adjusted her white robes, brushing away invisible wrinkles as she prepared to exit. In all her formal visits, children always come running with laughter, and the sound of wooden tools knocking in the distance was a constant, reassuring hum of village life.
But not this time.
"We have arrived, Saint Landre," Crusader Sarvin announced, though his usual formality carried an edge.
Landre nodded, her face settling into the serene mask she'd perfected over the years. The transformation from Landre Novalance to Saint Landre of the Light was second nature now—shoulders back, chin slightly raised, eyes soft yet commanding.
She stepped from the carriage, her breath forming misty clouds in the frigid air. The village sprawled before her, nestled between towering pines and rocky outcroppings. But something was wrong.
Silence. Complete, unnatural silence.
No children running to see the grand Church carriage. No village elder approaching with nervous bows. Not even dogs barking or chickens clucking.
The divine light she always felt within her seemed to dim, recoiling from a wrongness in the air that the cold alone couldn't explain.
Crusader Sarvin's hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt as he scanned the perimeter. His eyes, always vigilant, narrowed as he held the carriage door for Sister Imelda.
"Perhaps they didn't receive word of our arrival?" Imelda suggested, her voice barely above a whisper as she exited the carriage. She stood close to Landre.
Landre shook her head slightly. "The Church always sends messengers ahead. They knew we were coming."
Landre took a few steps forward, her boots crunching on the frost-covered ground. Empty windows stared back at her like hollow eyes.
"Why is no one greeting us?" she murmured, more to herself than her companions.
Landre took a cautious step forward, her white robes almost luminous against the muted grays of the village. Sarvin raised his hand, signaling the driver to remain with the carriage.
"Wait here," he commanded. "Be ready to depart quickly if necessary."
The crusader moved ahead, his armor catching what little sunlight filtered through the heavy clouds. His hand never left the pommel of his sword as he led their small procession down the main path. Landre followed, with Imelda staying close behind her, the woman's quill scratching nervously against her parchment.
As they walked deeper into the village, Landre peered through windows and open doorways. The homes stood completely still—chairs pulled back from half-eaten meals, doors left ajar. It was as if everyone had simply vanished in the middle of their daily lives.
"Something isn't right," Landre whispered, her trained serenity slipping for a moment. "There should be at least thirty families here according to the Church records."
Imelda flipped through her notes. "Thirty-four families, to be precise. Population of one hundred and seventeen as of last year's census."
Landre stopped at a cottage door, pushing it slightly wider. A pot of stew hung over dying embers, the contents congealed and cold. A child's doll lay abandoned on the floor. No blood, no signs of struggle—just... emptiness.
"Could it be illness?" Imelda suggested, her voice tight with worry.
"No bodies," Sarvin replied grimly. "No burial markers. This isn't plague."
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