Sometime after our victory, I sat atop the cairn of rocks and gazed out over the Kingdom of Radia. Soltair and Trithe surrounded a small pile of "loot." Much of it was junk, having long since been corroded by the constant fumes and acids of the Basilisk, but that only made sorting it that much easier. Occasionally, they'd raise some item enthusiastically, their voices floating up the brisk mountain breeze to tickle my ears.
Far below, at the base of the foothills, several villages made ready for the night. Kitchen fires sent countless streams of smoke skyward, casting a low haze over the region. The falling sun's rays intersected the smoke, casting a bright red glow over the sky. I sighed, resting my chin in my hands. Among them was Whiteriver Village. I couldn't help but wonder if the villagers had truly been liberated from the curse, as everyone believed.
