Nefarian's wings sliced through the clouds, and the wind howled past their ears.
Tristan gripped the saddle's leather handles, forcing himself to adjust to the air currents high above as he turned his attention to the land below.
An invisible line stretched across the land south of the Royal Capital.
South of that line lay the territories in central and southern Sabertooth Province that had joined the alliance. Their fields showed varying shades of green, proof that life was slowly returning.
North of the line, the scene was entirely different. Vast stretches of land had withered to yellow, dotted here and there with a few desperate patches of green.
"My lord, look."
Tristan pointed into the distance, toward the Menethil Marquessate.
Veylin guided Nefarian down to a lower altitude.
The city appeared before them again, as eerily silent as it had been on their journey out. No columns of smoke rose from burning bodies, and scarcely a pedestrian could be seen in the streets.
"It's too quiet," Tristan said.
"There is quite a contrast," Veylin replied. "Worth investigating."
"Shall we take a look?"
"Yes."
Nefarian changed course, flying toward a small town on the edge of the marquessate. They landed in the woods outside town and walked toward its entrance.
A makeshift checkpoint blocked their way. Several guards in leather armor were inspecting an ox cart attempting to enter town. It carried nothing but charcoal.
A middle-aged man wearing a clerk's badge stood beside them, recording something with a wooden board and a charcoal pencil. He looked exhausted, but his movements were meticulous.
Veylin and Tristan approached.
The clerk had clearly noticed them. Their clothes, bearing, and unhurried manner were utterly out of place here. Instinctively, he felt a flicker of anxiety.
"Gentlemen, the town is currently under epidemic restrictions.