The village was a graveyard.
William saw it from the hilltop—a cluster of stone huts, their roofs collapsed, their walls crumbling. No smoke rose from chimneys. No voices echoed in the streets. The Saint's birthplace had been empty for decades.
Kaelen stopped beside him. "The Rust drove them out. First the water, then the soil, then the air. They couldn't grow food. Couldn't raise children. Couldn't live."
"How many survived?"
"A few. They scattered. Some went west to Veridias. Some went east into the mountains. Some died on the road."
William walked down into the village.
The ground was hard, cracked, gray. Nothing grew here—no grass, no weeds, no trees. The Rust had poisoned everything. He knelt and touched the soil. It was warm. Pulsing. Alive in a way that had nothing to do with
