Trulda and Weylan trudged along the forest path with an occasional stumble. The sun was just above the horizon, bathing the landscape in reddish light. The moon and stars were already shining, but the branches of the trees overhung the path in many places, casting deep shadows across the ground.

Weylan kept his head down as he walked and occasionally kicked at stones. Trulda gave him an encouraging peck on the side: "Well, you always wanted to go on adventures. Isn't this great?"

He shook his head slightly: "No, not like that. I wanted a slightly more adventurous character class. That's it. Hunter or ranger or something. With the emergence of the wolves, I even toyed with the idea of training in a proper fighter class. But I wanted to start my adventures from home. Where I know my way around and where my friends and family are." He stopped and looked back down the path, "Now, I may never be able to go there again. At least not as long as the plague lasts. Or someone finds a way to eliminate revenants for good."

"Maybe he just forgets about you."

"And how do I know that then? This maniac could just decide to come by in a few years."

Trulda nodded reluctantly. They walked on quietly for a while, then talked about a few old stories from village life. As the sun drew ever closer to the horizon, Trulda slowly became quieter and quieter and eventually, the conversation petered out.

Trulda kept looking around nervously or at the sun.

The two walked on silently for a while. As the shadows grew longer, she began to sing softly to herself: "Hello darkness, my old friend..."

Weylan listened for a while, fascinated until he could no longer hold back: "I never heard that song. Sounds a bit depressing."

She broke off and swallowed: "Sorry... I mean... I'm sorry. I don't like the dark. Just makes me nervous when I can't see anything around me."

"What does the text mean?"

"My mother often played it on the guitar while my father sang along. It's by two revenant bards called Simon and Garfunkel. The lyrics are about loneliness and how darkness can sometimes be a safe haven. Or something like that. It's quite poetic."

"You don't feel well when it's dark?"

She only made a vague gesture.

"You grew up with the Traveling People, didn't you? Weren't you always out at night?"

She shook her head slightly: "Not at all. We set up camp at night. Wagons don't drive if we can't see the way clearly. It's far too dangerous. We had campfires, lamps and three illusion mages who created light globes around us. I didn't see a pitch-black night until I got to your village. You could really at least put some big oil lamps at the main crossroads."

Weylan was about to reply when he saw light in the distance: "Looks like they don't like darkness either."

A few minutes later, they came over a hill and could look down at the source of the light. The village in the background was quite dark, but a crowd of almost a hundred people had gathered in the field in front of it, most of them carrying torches. A whole sea of lights surrounded a platform set up in the middle of the clearing: piled wood and a pole on top.

Trulda pulled him down onto his knees so that they were not visible against the starry sky. Weylan thought that was very unlikely. In his opinion, no one down there had any functioning night vision with all the torches.

The innkeeper nudged him and pointed to his forehead: "The Questgiver's mark has lit up again," she whispered to him excitedly.

He now noticed a message at the edge of his field of vision. He concentrated on it until it enlarged and became legible:

Create a new quest? Yes/ No?

He selected Yes and quickly read through the texts that appeared.

Trulda waited impatiently until his eyes stopped darting back and forth: "The villagers caught a woman trying to perform a magical ritual in the cornfield. A circle of poisonous flowers, a slaughtered rabbit and chicken bones. She claimed it was to be a fertility ritual for the field, but a tuft of long blonde hair was also found. Now, the villagers believe that she wanted to bewitch one of the women in the village. They want to burn her as a witch for it."

"Wow. You get all this information just like that?"

"That's nothing we couldn't have learned from the villagers in five minutes. I can't tell if she's really guilty here. Let me tinker with the quest for a moment... There!"

Quest: Witch fire.

Save the witch from being burned without trial and prove her guilt or innocence.

Reward: Free board and lodging for two days, travel provisions for another week and 60 XP

Trulda accepted the quest, waited until the Questgiver symbol on Weylan's forehead went out and then got up to walk down the hill to the place of execution.

* * *

The two of them wandered down openly and were soon greeted by villagers. One man gripped his pitchfork tighter and peered tensely over their shoulders. When he saw no one else for miles around, he relaxed again: "Hello there! What's keeping travelers busy at this late hour? Welcome! I'll take you to the inn if you can pay. If not, then to my barn."

Weylan bowed politely: "Thank you. We can pay."

The man led them a few steps into the village, where a man with gray hair at his temples approached them. He had visibly pulled out his best sunny day shirt and radiated an air of importance unbecoming of the tiny village: "Travelers! Hendrik, what do you think you're doing greeting travelers with a pitchfork in your hand!"

Hendrik looked at his pitchfork as if he had only just noticed it. He hastily leaned it against a tree.

"I am Jorge, the village chief. Please excuse me if Hendrik has frightened you. Everyone here is a little nervous right now. First, there was talk of fighting at the Shield Forest in the south, and now there's the matter of the witch."

Weylan nodded to him in understanding: "Only understandable. The last traveling bard who came by also told us that there are fights between the tribes in the desert."

"He was obviously telling you nonsense. The tribes are no longer fighting each other. They have joined forces and are attacking the surrounding kingdoms."

"Wait... We are one of the surrounding kingdoms."

"Now you understand."

The man accompanied them to the inn and opened the door invitingly: "Come in! As well as village chief, I'm also the landlord here. Sometimes, I'm also the cook. So I can tell you that there is still a delicious stew."

Weylan nodded gratefully: "That's good. We should definitely eat something before the smell of burning meat spoils our appetite."

"Ah! You mean the pyre? We won't light it until noon tomorrow. Don't worry. People are just far too excited to sleep. We've never had a witch in our village."

"A witch? I suppose a wicked witch. The character class itself is not forbidden."

The man folded his arms resolutely: "We do. Magicians are bad, but at least they're trained in an academy. Who knows where witches get their knowledge from? And what dark rituals have been passed down through the generations? We don't tolerate witches here."

Weylan raised his hands defensively: "Hey, don't worry, we don't believe in dark magic either. I just meant that you wouldn't burn someone in such a peaceful, nice village for simply choosing the wrong spellcasting class."

The man relaxed: "I'm sorry, I'm also a bit too excited to think clearly. I haven't even introduced myself yet." He held out his hand: "I'm Jorge, the village chief."

Weylan shook his hand: "I'm Weylan."

Trulda bowed politely and then shook the village chief's hand as well: "I am Trulda. My sincere condolences."

Jorge looked at her, puzzled: "Why condolences?"

"Well, village chief. No power to really do anything, but always to blame if something goes wrong."

The man laughed: "Yes, that describes it well. Thank you." His face immediately became serious again. He looked around the square, frowning: "Especially with trouble like this. I'll be glad when we've got this over with tomorrow. I wanted to hang the witch quickly and painlessly, but the village elders wouldn't hear of it. The punishment should deter anyone else from learning the dark arts of magic."

Trulda shrugged her shoulders as if the subject wasn't that important to her. "You can tell us what's going on over dinner."

A little later, the three of them were sitting with many other villagers in the inn, which was still bustling despite the late hour. The village chief was not a particularly imaginative storyteller, so they did not get much more information out of the first tale than they already had about the quest. "Then the elders got together and made a judgment. Now, here we are." He raised his tankard and pointed at the surroundings.

Trulda looked at him indignantly: "That was damn quick for a death sentence."

The village chief immediately turned red in the face: "What?!? Young brat, are you trying to accuse me of not giving it enough thought before passing judgment? We elders have known everyone here in the village since they were born. Every rumor, every outrage. We can put two and two together. This witch explains several strange events and misadventures of recent years. Most of them involved villagers who didn't like Loreanna."

The young alewife didn't flinch at his anger in the slightest: "And why didn't anyone notice for years? Maybe because no one in the village liked this Loreanna?"

"Exactly. After her husband Ludger died of a sudden fever, she didn't become any more popular. That had always been suspicious. Ludger was a tree of a guy. Someone like that doesn't just fall ill and die. Many suspected her of having poisoned her husband, but the healer we brought in from the city couldn't detect any poison. He didn't check the body for witchcraft, though."

Weylan used a calming tone of voice to steer the conversation back onto a calmer track: "Then you must have had a reason to suspect that she wanted to get rid of her husband. Did they have a fight?"

In fact, the village chief immediately became quieter, but mainly because he seemed uncomfortable with the answer. Around the three of them, some of the villagers had scooted closer during Jorge's story and were now listening unabashedly. Weylan assumed that they hadn't heard anything new but were interested in how strangers reacted to the story. After all, it would be the most crucial topic of conversation for the next few years. A dramatic tale to tell travelers and guests. Jorge collected himself and looked around a little nervously: "There have been... incidents. Loreanna never complained about her husband, but she often had... accidents. Falls. But no one was ever there. She was just often seen with bruises and often didn't show up for weeks at the bathing lake for the women to swim together. The neighbors would occasionally hear her arguing, but usually only briefly. Then it was quiet again."

Weylan spared himself the question of whether the village chief had spoken to Ludger. No villager would simply accuse someone of beating his wife. His thoughts were racing. How could he get Jorge to think seriously about whether Loreanna was guilty? No one would listen to two minors from the neighboring village. Unless...

He sighed, shook his head and said quietly, more to himself: "I just hope this doesn't end up like the village of Redshire."

Jorge put down the beer mug he was about to raise to his mouth: "What do the Redshirians have to do with this?"

"You're not talking to them. Are you?"

"Of course not. You can't trust people from Redshire."

"Why?" Weylan raised his hand apologetically, indicating that he was trying to get at something with his question.

The village chief looked at him suspiciously but replied: "Three honorable old people were murdered in Redshire to save feoffment. An unbelievable disgrace! To be granted the land of the elderly in exchange for their continued support and maintenance during their lifetime is a sacred contract. Instead of providing for them, they killed them and dumped them all in the bog. Not even a decent burial! I don't think they're any better off now that they're cut off from all trade. Serves them right." He was about to spit, but his eyes met those of the innkeeper, who had wheeled around at the first sucking sound at the other end of the dining room. Jorge swallowed demonstratively.

Weylan spoke slowly, appearing even more uncertain than he actually was under so much attention: "My father said they told everyone that the three of them died of the summer flu. They were only dumped in the bog because their heirs were too lazy to dig proper graves."

The bystanders made their displeasure loud:

"Shame."

"You would have recognized the skin spots from the summer flu immediately."

Weylan actually raised his hand a little shakily to retake the floor: "Whether it's true or not. They dumped the bodies before anyone from a neighboring village could see them. No one who could testify to their story. If it were true, they can never prove it now."

Jorge nodded slowly: "I understand what you're getting at. Even if we are convinced of the witch's guilt, the other villages might see it differently afterward. Then we'll be the village that murdered a harmless herb woman. That is a good point and well made. That must not happen." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully while the bystanders looked at each other worriedly: "But what to do..."

Trulda had understood what Weylan was getting at: "You could hold another trial. In front of the whole village and all the guests. I can see the baskets of at least two peddlers here in the inn. We could both testify that everything was right."

The suggestion immediately met with general approval, even if the elders clearly didn't like having to justify their decision to everyone again. On the other hand, they were sure of their decision and agreed after some grumbling.

Jorge turned to the innkeeper: "Rodulf, get your fat ass over here. We still need rooms for the two of them."

The small and highly skinny man rushed over: "How am I supposed to do this? The whole inn is full. Even the stable is full of men who are so drunk their wives have thrown them out. I don't have any rooms left!"

"These honorable guests will help us tomorrow to review our verdict in front of all citizens as witnesses."

"You want to hold the trial again?"

Jorge looked at him indignantly: "Didn't you listen?"

"Some of us have to work!"

The village chief waved his arms: "Yes, we'll repeat the trial again in front of witnesses!"

"And then the witch is burned?"

"Exactly." The village chief did not see the look Trulda and Weylan gave each other.

The landlord wrung his thin hands: "That doesn't change the fact that I'm full to the brim."

"You must have a spare bed somewhere."

The innkeeper raised his hands over his head in resignation: "All right! Then my barmaid will sleep in my bedroom tonight, and I'll sleep on the floor. My old lady will be so thrilled."

He shooed the village headman away and led his unwelcome guests up a narrow staircase through a crowded taproom to the second floor. He opened the door to a room that could have been mistaken for a large cupboard. Just enough for a bed and a closet. Trulda looked inside and then quickly turned to the innkeeper: "There's only a tiny bed! We're not a... We can't..." She didn't have the words to continue.

The landlord looked at her in confusion: "You're both still underage, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, but..."

"Then nothing can happen. Good night." The innkeeper shoved the two of them inside, closed the door and then went back downstairs. The tiny room was lit by a small window high on the wall and a single candle in a jar. Trulda crawled over the bed, sat lengthwise on it and leaned against the wall: "He's not serious, is he?"

Weylan raised an eyebrow: "We are minors."

"Yes, but that hasn't stopped anyone yet."

The eyebrow was raised a little higher: "Yes, it usually does. You don't need to worry."

"Listen, I like you, but I'm not going to sleep in a bed with you and your pubescent hormones!"

"What are... never mind. Tell me, haven't your parents ever had that conversation with you?"

"What kind of conversation?"

"Well... you know..."

"I'm seventeen, damn it. I know about the flowers and the bees."

"What have..." He raised his hands: "I think we're talking past each other. Did your parents tell you what happens when two minors..." He blushed and made a very vague hand gesture.

She folded her arms under her chest, causing them to move impressively: "Go on. This looks like it's going to be interesting."

"So..."

"Yes?"

He waved his hands helplessly. Then he sighed: "I just can't believe your parents didn't explain that to you." Before she could object, he continued: "I'll just demonstrate." He also crawled onto the bed and grabbed her cleavage in a flash. Before she could unfold her hands and smack him, purple flashes lit up around his hand. His whole body was illuminated. An invisible force lifted him up, then he flew a full two meters backward but braked abruptly in front of the door so that he only bounced moderately against it.

Youth protection violation!

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Trulda looked at him with her mouth open. Her eyes wandered back and forth between the teenager rubbing his hand with clenched teeth and her cleavage. "But you've touched me before, haven't you?"

"Not like that. It depends on what you want to achieve. Not necessarily how and what you touch." She pulled her feet up, and he sat down on the bed in the vacated space. He continued, "If you're stuck in a swamp, I can easily pull you out by gripping you on your bare..." He coughed but then pulled himself together, "... breasts. No problem. But if I start using the situation to grope you... Bam!"

Towards the end, he spoke faster and faster and then fell silent. She couldn't see precisely whether he was blushing in the dim light.

She just looked at him for a moment, then giggled: "Man, I really should have read the small print."

"The small print?"

She shrugged her shoulders: "A saying of the revenants when you don't know the rules because you've never asked or been told. That explains why no one ever grabbed my butt in the tavern like the poor barmaid always does in the bards' stories."

"That's more because anyone who behaves that badly wouldn't have had any fun in the village. We're not barbarians after all."

The corners of her mouth twitched. "No, you’re not."

"I don't have any indecent disadvantages either. I think."

"You think?"

"Well, who knows what he was born with?"

She looked at him piercingly for a moment: "Seriously? You've never taken a look at your character sheet?"

"You mean the status screen? Of course. How else am I supposed to manage my skills and choose a character class?"

"No, I mean the other side. Attributes, advantages, disadvantages, race..."

"My father always thought it would be bad for character to put its qualities into values or to view them in this way."

"And that really stopped you?"

"Well... He didn't tell me how to get to it. The few times I tried, I couldn't figure out how to do it."

"That's really simple+ if you know how. Imagine that you turn the status screen around. As if it had an axis in the middle. Then you think: Character sheet."

She only saw that he was suddenly staring into space in front of him, but the look clearly showed that he had followed her instructions immediately. His eyes wandered back and forth as he read the test visible only to himself: "Man, that's embarrassing. I should have figured it out myself."

"Not really. These functions are explicitly not intended for the inhabitants of this world, but only for revenants. Before a revenant with an absurdly high teaching skill managed to explain it to a merchant, nobody could. Since then, it's easy to learn, but until someone shows you, you can't find the functions. Your father really should have explained that."

He nodded, but paid more attention to the text that appeared:

Name: Weylan

Race: Human

Character class: Assassin (Level 1)

Strength: 12

Dexterity: 14

Intelligence: 10

Willpower: 10

Constitution: 12

Charisma: 10

He skipped the rest and read his characteristics out loud. He scrunched up his face: "Charisma ten? Sounds pretty low. No wonder I had so few friends."

"Don't let it get you down. Ten is the standard everyone is born with. Your father is absolutely right that you shouldn't reduce anyone to a mere set of numbers. The improvements come from practicing and the points you get with each improvement."

"What? I never gave out points there!"

"The one point from your first level up undoubtedly went to dexterity. It's automatic if you don't set the system to manual."

"I'll do that in a minute." His eyes darted back and forth briefly, then he tapped his finger in the air. "Done."

"What does it say about advantages and disadvantages? Everyone gets at least one advantage and one disadvantage. Of course, you don't have to read it out loud if you don't want to. In case it's anything embarrassing."

"What does your sheet say?"

Trulda grinned mischievously: "I won't tell. So, I really won't be angry if you keep yours to yourself."

He read through the part and frowned: "What kind of weird disadvantage is that: Living in interesting times?"

"What?" The grin vanished as if swept away: "Is that really what it says? You're joking. Tell me you're just kidding!"

"No... It really says that. Doesn't sound so bad, does it? Interesting times? I guess that means I won't be bored that often."

She hesitated: "That... No. I'm sure there are worse disadvantages." Then she continued quickly: "What does it say under advantages?"

"Shadow affinity. Doesn't mean anything to me either. Is that good?"

"Shadow affinity? Not bad. Plus magic talent? What level?"

"Magic talent? There's nothing about that here. That's the only advantage."

"Funny... The magical affinities are really expensive, but also very powerful advantages in the long term. But without magic talent, it's pretty useless."

"Expensive? Can you buy benefits anywhere? How is that supposed to work?"

Trulda hesitated for a moment to think: "That's how revenants described it in the old legends. We are born with random advantages and disadvantages, but the revenants can choose them from a list. There's some kind of points system for that. You can choose advantages for a certain number of points and get extra points if you take disadvantages. Some advantages are more expensive than others, so they cost more points. You'd have to ask a revenant for details, though."

"That means they choose advantages that suit their class and abilities and then disadvantages that cause them as little damage as possible?"

"Exactly. If someone plans to play a sand runner in the lowlands, they'll probably take Seasickness and Inability: swimming."

"He can't swim with that? That doesn't sound too bad. Many people my age can't swim yet. I can only do it because my father insisted on teaching me in the forest lake."

Trulda quickly changed the subject: "You can also find out more about your advantages and disadvantages. Take a concentrated look at the word and think: Help."

Disadvantage: Living in interesting times

Increases the probability of non-standard events and quests. Increases the probability of very rare and unique random loot. Easier access to rare or forbidden character classes.

"Doesn't sound so bad. Now for the advantage..."

Advantage: Shadow affinity

Affinity for shadow magic, shadows and darkness in general. Advantages when learning and casting shadow magic (not applicable without magic talent). Resistance to shadow magic. Increased chance to recognize illusions from shadow magic.Non-magical effects (non-magical effects are increased for non-magicians): Bonuses to sneaking and hiding. Bonus to attack and damage rolls when in shadow or complete darkness.

Trulda thought about it for a moment: "Okay... That could be useful for a hunter or thief."

The assassin tried to maintain a neutral expression with little success. Bonuses to two of his most important class skills? The gods had meant well for him after all.

Trulda tilted her head and looked at him suspiciously: "You look surprisingly self-satisfied. No, don't even try it. You have a terrible poker face. So, you've already chosen a character class that can do something with the advantage. Have you been able to activate it properly yet? Did the class system kick in after the fight?"

Weylan waved him off: "Not this time. I won't tell you anything else until you reveal your class."

"Who says I already have a class? We're the same age."

"We were in the same fight. In the same quest. If I could choose a class, which is the case, so could you."

She was silent for a moment: "I've had my class for a while. I chose it because I wanted to have a few specific useful skills. Not because I really wanted to live this class."

"Let me guess... courtesan? Because of the bonuses to agility and social skills?"

The slap took him completely by surprise and jerked his head to the side. His ears rang as he looked at Trulda in surprise.

She spoke very slowly and with emphasis: "Guess... one more... time..."

"I'd rather not." He held his sore cheek: "Man, you're stronger than you look."

"Carry food and beer mugs around all day. Guess who had to roll the beer barrels into the cellar."

"Will you tell me your attributes?"

"Why not. Twelve."

"Twelve in what?"

"Twelve in everyone. All a little above average. But nothing outstanding, like your skill."

"Didn't you just say that everyone is born with ten in every attribute?"

"Yes. Why?"

"How did you manage to increase everything so evenly?"

She smiled mysteriously: "Maybe I have an advantage for that. Perfection of body and mind. Sounds great, doesn't it?"

"Did you?"

The smile turned into a grin: "No."

"Let me sleep on it. Maybe then I'll figure out how you did it."

"All right." She slid under the covers and pressed her back against the wall to give him as much space as possible.

He hesitated: "Maybe I'd better sit here. It's a good way to sleep."

"Don't make a fool of yourself. You have to be fit tomorrow. Lie down. I know now that you'll keep your fingers to yourself."

"I don't need a world voice to behave." He sounded a little offended.

"I know. Go to sleep."

* * *

The next morning greeted them with a hearty, free breakfast and bright sunshine. The villagers took this as a sign that the gods had set their eyes on the village to bring the truth to light.

The entire village and all the guests had gathered. The market square was overcrowded. The spectators crowded into the side alleys. An ancient oak tree stood in the middle of the square, its lowest branches stretching over three meters high and shading most of it.

On one side, three tables had been set up overnight as an open square on a grandstand where musicians usually played for dancing and which was also used for many dance performances. Trulda and Weylan sat at the left-hand table as neutral witnesses. At the table in the middle, facing the spectators, sat the village headman with the two elders of the village. An ancient bald scrawny figure called Verdens and, as a contrast, the long-haired fat Regar. Weylan had used the breakfast to ask the innkeeper a few more questions and learned that Verden used to be a carpenter and Regar was his predecessor as innkeeper. Both retired over ten years ago. Both highly respected. Regar because he knew everyone in the village and was liked by everyone and Verden because he was completely impartial. As far as Weylan had understood, it was because he despised everyone in the village equally. He found that very sad at first, but the innkeeper assured him that the old man was very comfortable in his role as the grumpy outsider. The defendant was to sit at the last table.

An alley formed with shoving and pushing as the defendant was led up. The forty-year-old farmer's wife would not have stood out in the crowd. Medium height, average figure, tanned skin and brown shoulder-length thinning hair. Here, however, she stood out because of the heavy iron chains she was wrapped in. They had also gagged her and wrapped her hands in thick fur gloves so that she couldn't make any magical gestures. She was accompanied by a nervous young man with a halberd.

The village chief stood up when she arrived in front of the platform. She stopped in front of the waist-high platform and looked at the short ladder. Then she demonstratively looked down at herself and the chains. A few spectators rushed over and helped her up. Jorge nodded formally to her when she finally reached the top: "Loreanna, we have gathered here today to dispense justice under the eyes of the gods. You have been caught preparing a sinister black magic ritual. Now we will..."

A loud cough from Weylan interrupted him. He fell silent and looked over at the troublemaker with a pinched face.

Weylan stood up and bowed politely: "Honorable village leader, excuse me. But we have gathered to find out what has happened. If you assume from the outset that the accused is guilty, then there is no point in this."

Jorge threw his hands up: "Then do it yourself!", sat down and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Weylan froze. His gaze swept from the village headman to the accused to the spectators. Countless pairs of eyes staring at him. He swallowed. Then he straightened and nodded: "A good suggestion." He stood up, walked around the table and carefully removed the defendant's gag. Scattered protests from the audience were quickly silenced by other spectators. Most of them wanted to hear what she had to say. Weylan went back to his seat and then turned to the accused: "Apart from your name, I don't know anything about you yet. Please, Loreanna, introduce yourself briefly."

The woman looked at him in irritation: "I am Loreanna. I was born in this village. My mother was the midwife Haldara. She has often been attacked because she has brazenly healed people!"

Trulda leaned back in her chair and crossed her feet. The only thing missing was a small bucket of popcorn.

Weylan seemed to waver under the collected attention, but remained steadfast: "And what is your profession?"

"What was the scary herb woman's daughter supposed to do? No one else wanted to apprentice me. I asked some of them!" Under her glittering eyes, some of those present lowered their gaze. Others began to boo and shout insults.

Jorge thundered his fist on the table and silence returned with some hesitation.

Weylan took the opportunity to lead Loreanna to the free table on the right, where he helped her to sit down without tipping off her chair.

"So you're a midwife?"

"Midwife, herbalist, animal expert. Responsible for everything that no one else wants to touch. Often literally."

"What is your character class?"

"Herbalist. Because even in this generation, this village hasn't managed to raise the gold it would have cost to train me as a proper healer in the city."

Verden snapped his scrawny fingers and muttered something only audible to those on the platform: "Even if we had the gold, we'd spend it on a man. What good is a healer who spends half her life in childbirth? Any decent woman would at least."

Loreanna gave the elder a murderous look.

He noticed that the knuckles of the guardsman's hands were turning white around his halberd. Weylan forced a smile onto his face and gestured to him that everything was all right. Even if he wasn't sure of that himself. He didn't want the trial to end with the defendant's skull split open.

"So you're an herbalist. Are you married?"

A general giggle answered his question. Loreanna just looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"Probably not... Good. Let's get to the interesting part. I heard you were found in the cornfield in an unusual situation. Please describe what happened."

"You've already decided to burn me anyway. I can see the pyre from here!"

"The honorable village chief Jorge and the elders have decided that their decision may have been made too quickly. We will therefore question all witnesses again today and only then come to a well-founded decision."

"Of course..." She let the sentence trail off slowly. "But all right. I was on my way home from Erda's, where I helped her give birth to her son. Not an easy birth. Not that anything was wrong, but Erda is by far the most sniveling crybaby I've ever had to assist. Her clumsy husband was no help either."

Regar's full-throated laughter interrupted them. He held his fat stomach and rubbed a tear from his eye: "That's good. I'm sure your low opinion of Erda has nothing to do with the fact that she stole Retek from you." He turned to Trulda and Weylan and added a little more quietly: "Her husband. The father of her child." he added.

Verden's comment echoed through the brief silence before Loreanna could reply: "At least that's what she says."

The defendant laughed out loud.

A high-pitched outcry could be heard from the audience. Weylan saw a mane of blonde hair disappear into the crowd as someone stopped a woman from storming onto the stage. A tall man threw her over his shoulder and disappeared with her out of sight behind the trunk of the oak tree.

Regar called after them: "Don't take her too far away. She has to testify later."

Weylan waited until everyone had calmed down a bit: "And what happened to you on the way home?"

"I took the shortcut through the cornfield. Then..."

He raised his hand to interrupt her and turned to the village chief: "Does this fit? I mean, is this really the shortest way?"

Jorge nodded.

"I'm sorry. Keep talking."

"So I took the shortcut through the cornfield. Visibility is extremely poor. I walked carefully so as not to knock over any plants."

"I should hope so too!" The heckler was immediately silenced by the bystanders. The villagers hadn't seen anything this exciting for years and didn't want to miss a word.

"Then I suddenly came to a small clearing. Someone had cut the corn there at ground level and pushed it to the edge. There was this square symbol carved into the ground. In the middle was a silver bowl and some weird animal parts and blood and..." She shuddered and fell silent.

Trulda unconsciously mimed taking something out of a container and throwing it into her mouth: "Yeah. Now it's getting interesting. Get the witnesses and cross-examine them."

Weylan was about to ask her what she meant when a flash of green light drew his attention to the large oak tree. He couldn't see what had happened there, only that some spectators were pushed away from the trunk and knocked over others. There was a tangle of bodies and wild gesticulating. Then the shouts of protest were replaced by worried voices. People backed away and a square slowly formed against the pressure of those further away who wanted to see what was going on. In the open space that formed in front of the oak tree, a man could be seen whose clothes were dirty and torn in many places. His only weapon was a brown encrusted dagger, with which he threatened anyone who tried to come closer. A leather scabbard hung empty from his belt.

The village elder and Weylan shouted loudly in an unplanned chorus, "Be quiet and let him speak."

Jorge glared at Weylan, who bowed his head silently and fell silent. Then Jorge stepped to the edge of the platform and called out: "Forgive me, stranger, but your arrival is very unexpected and comes at a bad time. Are you injured? Shall we get someone to dress your wounds?"

"Should I do this before or after you burn me at the stake?" Loreanna grumbled into the ensuing expectant atmosphere before the new arrivals could answer. Weylan motioned to Loreanna to be quiet and hastily murmured, "Not now!" to her.

The man lowered his dagger. He sounded exhausted and spoke between deep breaths: "They're coming. Prepare yourselves. They're coming..."

Jorge gave Weylan a threatening look and then answered alone: "Who's coming?"

"The border forest has fallen. The queen of the forest, the Hamadryad... has fallen. The Krigesti are on their way here."

Villagers began to tend to the wounds of the new arrival. Others were sent out by Jorge to spy out the road to the south from the fire watch tower. Weylan turned to his companion, who was watching the hustle and bustle but no longer looked amused. "Trulda? Do you know who or what a Krigesti is?"

"A kind of cult. I haven't heard much about them yet. I don't think anyone knows anything concrete about them at the moment. Kressel the Bard was at our inn on his rounds a month ago. He reported rumors of a war army gathering in the desert realms to the south. At dinner in the evening after his performance, he mentioned that information about the Krigesti was being spread everywhere. All the bards and heralds mention them. Although there is hardly anything to report." She looked at him meaningfully.

"I don't understand... Does that mean anything?"

"The bards are nervous. They're not making a big deal of it so as not to spread panic. But something like this has happened several times in the past. The bards collect stories. In their schools, they also analyze how they have developed. What interests their audience and what doesn't. According to Kressel, they have found one thing in common. Small events popping up everywhere that seemed much more important to everyone involved than was actually appropriate. Before the Necromancer's War, there were incidents of lone undead and looted graveyards everywhere. Not really that interesting, but it was sung about by the bards in all the kingdoms. Every innkeeper told every guest about it, even three towns away."

Weylan listened to her as he watched the two new arrivals being taken care of. Jorge had jumped down from the stands and gathered a group of men to hurry with them to the town hall. Without looking away, he asked: "I still don't understand what you're getting at. Maybe there was nothing else interesting to tell at the moment."

"The bards have a word for it from the Creator's language: Foreshadowing. The foreshadowing of great events. Before the beginning of every great age, there is a phase in which many small events herald the great catastrophe. Each time, a world quest occurs a few weeks later. Like the war of the necromancers."

Now she had Weylan's full attention: "So this is going to be another full-blown plague? Quests, wars, hundreds of thousands of revenants?"

She nodded decisively.

"Then I have to get back home quickly! Our village!"

"You're at the first level of your class at best. You have no decent equipment. No skills that can be used in combat. Don't be mad at me, but you can't help much yet."

"I must be able to do something!"

"A noblewoman has taken up residence in the village. In addition, more revenants have appeared than you would need for a simple problem with wolves. They will defend the village."

"And what do we do?"

"We travel on to Mulnirsheim. The town has a fortress, or rather a wall... Actually, it's a fortress that forms a wall. It blocks a narrow passage in the mountain pass. The only pass through which an army could enter the heartlands. If there's a war, it ends at the wall. The thing is insurmountable. We are safe in the city."

Weylan looked around thoughtfully: "There's not even a wooden rampart here. No spawnpoint. The village here is completely defenseless."

"The path from the protective forest to the Mulnirsheim Pass runs almost three days' journey west of here. Your village is to the southeast. Even more remote, from the point of view of an invading army. It will probably become a base for quests that disrupt Krigesti supply routes. Reconnaissance missions. Espionage behind enemy lines. With any luck, you won't notice any of that here."

"Are you sure?" Weylan looked anxiously at the men, women and children scurrying around the village.

"I..." Trulda hesitated, "...no. We know too little to really be sure. But all world quests are subject to certain rules. It makes no sense dramaturgically to slaughter a remote defenseless village."

"The world doesn't care if something makes a good story! This is about real people! And the harmless village that was slaughtered by the inhuman invaders does make a dramatic story!" He got out of breath and some bystanders turned their attention to the two of them.

"Not so loud. There was never a massacre like this in the Necromancers' War. The villagers always escaped at the last moment."

"How do you know that..." Weylan stumbled. "Of course... You have access to the Bardic Knowledge skill! Your class is bard!"

"I already told you, I'm not telling on my class."

He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again: "So we can't do anything here?"

"I don't know what."

Weylan let his gaze sweep over the crowd once more, then he straightened up and turned to the guardsman with the halberd: "Your village will soon be in the middle of a war. With casualties at every crossroads. Do you think this is the right time to burn one of your few herbalists?"

The man looked around indecisively. Then he nodded and took a step back. Weylan hesitated for a moment and then decided that the answer was meant for him and set about freeing Loreanna from her bonds. When she looked at him questioningly, he shrugged his shoulders: "The best way to prove your innocence is to help your neighbors in their hour of need."

She nodded and made her way to the injured man next to the tree. Two older women had already laid him on a blanket, removed his shirt with scissors and opened a stab wound in his chest, a hand's breadth from his heart, which they were now binding with strips of linen without any recognizable system.

"Stand aside you old fools. If you want to kill him, hit him over the head with a frying pan. It'll be quicker."

The two jumped back, startled, "Loreanna, I..."

"You never doubted my innocence, you just didn't dare to say anything. I know, Hanna, I know. Now run and get my bag of herbs. In my apartment, right next to the front door. Go!"

The woman ran off.

"And you, you get me some fresh water."

The other woman also sprinted off.

Loreanna removed the uselessly limp bandages, tossed them aside and then pressed a folded linen cloth onto the wound. With surprising strength, she lifted the man to pull a bandage through several times behind his back. As she tightened and knotted the bandages, the wound stopped bleeding. She took another look at the wound and then slapped the man without warning: "Hey! Is there anything else you want to tell us before you die?"

His gaze flickered, but he regained consciousness. His voice sounded hoarse and low, as if he had used up all his reserves for his previous message: "The princess..."

Weylan leaned forward with interest: "What about a princess?"

"Princess Ulmenglanz... She is... Escape..."

"Where is she? Which way is she going? Is she being followed? By whom?"

The man tried to speak, but couldn't get a sound out.

"We can't help her without more information!"

Loreanna checked his pulse, looked critically at the color of his face: "The stab wound is too deep and he's already lost too much blood. He only has minutes to live. Only a true healer could help here. I can only give him a painless death."

Trulda took Weylan by the arm to lead him away, but he shook her off: "No! There's another way. Listen to me! Speak! Ask us to save them! Go on! Say it!"

Trulda looked at him in confusion. The man heaved himself up a little for the last time and the bandage immediately began to visibly fill with blood: "Save... Princess... Ulmenglanz..."

When he saw the red glow appear on Weylan's forehead, he smiled and then fell back to the ground. His chest heaved only slightly and irregularly. Even unconscious, his face contorted in pain.

Loreanna pushed Weylan back, who read something in the air that only he could see: "You two go back. Further back. Further still. I'm going to try something else."

Distracted, Weylan took a few steps back, fully focused on the quest creation menu. Trulda also took two steps back and tried to see over her shoulder what the herb woman was doing. Loreanna pulled something out of her pocket. A bundle of blonde hair. Trulda looked back at the judge's table. The bundle of hair that Jorge had placed on the table as evidence was missing. Before Trulda could say anything, Loreanna pushed the bandage aside, pressed the tuft of hair into the blood and shouted words that echoed darkly across the court.

"By the heart oak and the nexus on which it stands! By the blood of my sacrifice. By my wrath. Complete the ritual and carry me away!"

Red lightning flashed across the body and drove into the oak tree behind it. A female scream of pain could be heard from the crowd.

Weylan rushed forward to stop the witch. He had not yet realized that it was too late for that. Trulda followed him and swung her fist to prevent Loreanna from casting any more spells. Her fist struck the woman's face at the same moment Weylan grabbed her arm. More lightning flashed crimson and tore apart the space around the oak tree.

Jorge had watched the last few seconds and now had to witness how the three of them were pulled into the oak tree by dark red lightning. All the branches went up in flames at once and the trunk burst apart. The messenger's body was still lying where he had died, but the three others had disappeared. After a moment of indecision, he began shouting orders to have the fire put out. A fire in the village was the last thing they needed now.