"What are you certain?" Deep voice.
Dark room. Small rays of light entered through the holes on the ceiling, making the bits of dancing dust visible. Each breath of wind only added to the rustle and the dance.
"I am, a hero has been summoned," the knight relayed. He'd bent forward, leaning on his left knee, kneeling. "And they may not be aligned with the world's views," he said.
"It is still too early," the voice paused. "Keep an eye, and should you deem them… trouble… erase them."
"As you wish," the knight stood back up. "Well then, I shall take my leave."
"Jan," the voice called.
"Yes?"
"Don't die."
"I have no such plans."
He moved out of the cottage. A rather plain cottage of mud and dead leaves. Dirt stretched before him as far as his eyes could see. And past the dirt, sand.
Some molds formed on the dirt with dry leaves as celling- homes. Homes of the poor.
