POV: Caleb
Thornfield village wasn't destroyed. That was the first wrong thing, and it set my teeth on edge before we had even gotten through the gate.
"No blood," Keith said, low, turning a slow circle in the empty square. "No bodies. No fire damage."
"The doors are open, and their beds are made," I said.
We split up, moving from house to house, and every single one told the same story. The meals left half-eaten, laundry still soaking in basins, a child's toy abandoned mid-game on a porch step.
It didn’t look like a village that had been attacked. Rather, the whole place had simply stopped, mid-motion, all at once.
"This isn't the Forgotten's work," Varric said, joining us in the square, his expression grim in the fading light. "They burn. They leave bodies. This is—"
"Cleaner and
