The Village of Whispers lived up to its name. As Vell walked through the streets, conversations died, replaced by hushed murmurs that seemed to dance on the edge of hearing. The buildings were a peculiar mix of ancient stone and makeshift repairs, as if the village had been patched together over centuries of decay.
People scurried away as he passed, ducking into doorways or averting their eyes. Their clothes were worn but clean, their faces bearing the same haunted look he'd seen on the scavengers outside. The air itself felt wrong—thick with an energy that made his skin crawl.
[Something's off about these villagers. Their mana signatures are... distorted.]
"Noticed that too, huh?" He muttered, his eyes scanning the streets. Every person he saw had traces of foreign mana woven through their bodies, like invisible chains binding them to something—or someone.
