That had been the way of their ancestors. Their traditions and beliefs. Not human ones, but their own. Such had been their freedom. The freedom to choose how they would die.
“Come on, my disciple,” the Black General called out again. He was still an apparition in the distance.
Hadjar went down the stone stairs and followed the path. Every step he took echoed through this… Vast cave? Small underground country? The Wind was light and barely present here. It came and went. Just as life came and went. All it left behind was a memory. This memory was embodied in the tombs that stood within these ancient walls. This was the final resting place of those who had gone into exile with their leader to create their own country — a country of departed memories. The North Wind Country. The true Nort
