Blacksmith Hans's home stood on the eastern side of the town, a two-story stone house with a courtyard.
The anvil sign at the courtyard gate was already mottled with rust, while half-finished farm tools and several chunks of scrap iron lay piled in the yard.
The clamor of hammering that should have filled the place had vanished without a trace. Only the wind wailed as it passed beneath the eaves.
Old Herman walked at the front, his hunched figure casting a long, slender shadow across the flagstone path.
He stopped at the courtyard gate and turned to look at the nine wizards behind him.
"Hans's youngest son is inside." The old man's voice was hoarse but calm. "His name is Karl. He's fourteen. This morning, he watched his mother and younger sister breathe their last right before his eyes. Now he's in there alone and refuses to come out."
The Dark Blue Robed Wizard nodded. "Let's go in. Be careful not to frighten him."
The group crossed the courtyard and pushed open the half-closed wooden door.
The first floor contained the kitchen and living room, and a salty, fishy stench permeated the air.
Benjamin noticed that half a pot of soup remained in the iron pot on the stove, its surface covered by a thin grayish-white film.
The bowls and plates on the dining table had not been cleared away, utensils were scattered all over the floor, and one chair lay overturned nearby... probably knocked over when someone had suddenly stood up.
In the corner of the living room, a boy was curled up in a chair.
He looked younger than he actually was. His thin body was wrapped in an oversized coarse linen shirt, his arms clutched tightly around his knees, his face buried against them, his shoulders trembling