THIRTY-TWO
Kasmirus had changed little since George left, he found, as they entered the gates. But the people of Kasmirus...they had altered considerably, and not for the better. An air of melancholy surrounded the town like some deadly miasma. Though it was Sunday, everyone wore dark, funereal colours.
George's blood ran cold. He stopped the first man he recognised, a baker he'd often bought bread from. "Please, tell me. What ails the city? Is it plague?" For nothing else could send a whole city into mourning, surely.
The baker shook off George's grasp. "By all that's holy, I hope not. Is a dragon not enough for our sins? When I think of those poor girls...I won't let my daughters leave the house now, for it is not safe. The sooner some knight dispatches the dragon, the happier we'll
