The acolytes of the Great Graveyard didn't linger at the inn for long.
As night fell, the cloaked lizardmen and a variety of skeletons quickly departed from this temporary refuge crowded with refugees.
The raging snowstorm made the wooden planks nailed over the windows creak, amplifying the serene crackle of the fireplace.
Exhausted and no longer on edge, the crowd gradually drifted into sleep, lulled by the sound of intermittent snores.
It was the first time they had slept so soundly.
There was no need to fear the lord's private soldiers, masquerading as bandits.
Nor to worry about the demon beasts, gray bears, or wolves lurking in the forest...
Yet Pierre, the village head, could not sleep no matter how he tried.
He tossed and turned on the reed mat, deep furrows of worry etched into his weathered face, as if caught in a web of unresolved inner turmoil.
"The Lord Demon King is always watching you..."
