On that night, the usually silent little village was alive with many piles of bonfires. This blaze, burning at the heart of the village, cast a fiery glow that reflected the starry sky above, its flames reaching as if to consume the stars themselves.
Meanwhile, the air above the fire warped and twisted, carrying the distinct scent of charred wood. That distortion, was it not a symbol that the truth would always be shrouded in darkness and cruelty?
The fire was surrounded by villagers, including men, women, and children cradled in their mothers' arms. It was only now that Idiot realized just how populous this tiny hamlet was, almost half the size of a small city.
Another oddity was that the wives of these men were all quite attractive. Dahlia exemplified this beauty; every man's wife here was a rare find elsewhere, as if the town were blessed by Aphrodite herself.
