Only ash and embers remained of the farmhouse. The Blackwolds came in the night, ravaging and burning as they went. Sewyn had helped drive them off, along with the rest of the townsfolk, but now...nothing remained. The young boy looked on the ruin with sadness, his cheeks warmed by the tears which streamed down them. His family had not made it out, he had learned that morning. But he was not the only one to receive such news. Everyone in the town had lost someone, and the sound of weeping hung on the air, a symphony of sorrow.
In his hand, he held a sword which he had stripped from a fallen Blackwold. He had used it in his defense against the onslaught, but had neglected to clean it after the battle. Blood still stained the blade, now dried. It was a simple, little blade, no more than two feet long. Its hilt was unadorned, just a steel grip wrapped in black leather.
Such a costly thing, thought Sewyn as he looked at the blade. Worth so little in coin, but bought at so high a price.
He wiped the tears from his face, and looked over his shoulder, toward Archet. The little village lay in ruin. There was nothing left for him there. That which had made Archet home had burned in the farmhouse. He did not want to leave. He did not know what would become of the pile of ashes, his former life. Yet he knew he must, and begrudgingly took a step. Then another. He would go north, he decided, to Bree.
