The Crimson Legacy (In Progress)

Chapter 13: Ghost Town

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As Clara made her way through the winding forest path, the weight of her exhaustion began to pull at her limbs. Days of relentless traveling and fighting had taken their toll, and though she tried to focus on her goal—the Tree of Magus—her senses were dulled by a gnawing hunger that was becoming impossible to ignore.

It was then that she caught the scent—rich, smoky, and tantalizingly close. Her stomach tightened with longing, and she instinctively altered her course, following the alluring aroma of roasted meat. 

The forest path widened into an old, narrow road that led her to a town she didn't recognize. It lay shrouded beneath thick, heavy clouds that seemed to absorb the little sunlight that dared to peek through.

Despite the crowd that filled its cobbled streets, the town was eerily silent. The residents moved like shadows, their faces set in stony seriousness, their eyes downcast as they went about their tasks. No one spoke, no one smiled; there were no idle conversations or laughter to be heard, only the shuffling of feet and the creak of wooden carts.

Clara pulled her hood lower over her silver hair, her scarlet eyes peering out cautiously as she blended with the muted crowd. She moved through the streets with practiced stealth until she came upon a small, ancient-looking eating-house. 

The door creaked loudly as she pushed it open, the sound seeming to echo in the empty space. Inside, the room was almost as quiet as the streets, save for the low crackling of the hearth fire.

The only figure within was a large man, his back to her as he tended to something behind the counter. He was a hulking figure, his shoulders broad and his arms thick with muscle, with a tangled beard that reached his chest. A butcher's apron hung around his neck, splattered with old bloodstains.

Clara approached cautiously, her hunger overriding her instincts for the moment. "Do you sell food here?" she asked, her voice rough from disuse.

The butcher didn't turn. He didn't speak or even acknowledge her presence. His hands continued to move in a practiced rhythm, the blade in his hand carving through meat with almost mechanical precision. Clara felt a chill crawl up her spine at his silence.

"Excuse me," she tried again, this time more firmly, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Do you have anything I can eat?"

The butcher paused, his blade coming to a halt. He tilted his head slightly, but did not turn to face her. His voice, when it came, was cold and flat, as though the warmth had been drained from it long ago. 

"I'll prepare a piece of lamb meat," he said quietly. "Sit."

Clara didn't question him. She moved to one of the rickety tables and sat, her eyes scanning the room. The eating-house was old, the wooden beams that held the roof sagging under the weight of years. It smelled of age and disuse, the air thick with the scent of grease and decay. Dust clung to every surface, and the corners of the room were filled with cobwebs that hadn't been disturbed in what seemed like decades.

Her eyes drifted to a poster nailed haphazardly to the wooden wall. Faded and torn, its edges curling with age, it read: "This world bends to our will; the undisputed power in the shadows."

The phrase stirred something in her memory, like a half-forgotten whisper from another life. She frowned, trying to recall where she had heard those words before, but her thoughts were interrupted as the butcher returned, placing a plate of roasted lamb in front of her.