Their first destination was a village of about hundred and fifty buildings. The village lay atop the tall hill like. It wasn't extravagant by any means—simple homes made of stone and timber clustered together like a close-knit family, narrow paths snaking between them. The buildings weren't uniform, but they were cared for: tidy fences, pots of flowers perched in windows, and the occasional carving or totem hung above doorways. It was a place built by hand and held together by familiarity. The kind of village where everyone probably knew everyone else.
As Amukelo and his companions entered the village, the air was filled with the light chatter of people and the distant sound of children's laughter. Kids chased each other through the dusty roads, kicking up dirt and shouting half-formed games, while a few dogs barked lazily, more amused than annoyed. A small group of women near the well were hanging up cloth banners—bright, woven pieces of blue and green—with golden threading at the edges. Even the stalls near the center of the village seemed busier than usual. They weren't fancy, just wooden stands with bundles of herbs, jars of honey, baskets of bread, and small trinkets made of straw or clay.
Bao stopped walking for a moment and scanned the surroundings. "It seems like they're preparing for something," she said, watching as a group of teenagers worked together to lift a wooden frame for what looked like a stage.
Amukelo looked around with a faint, content smile. "It reminds me of my village," he said. "It was smaller than this, sure, but… it had the same feeling."
Pao nodded beside him, clasping her hands behind her back. "Yeah. It's kind of refreshing. Not too loud, not too quiet. Everyone just… doing life."
"Well," Bral said, squinting at a cluster of hay bales piled next to a barn, "that's probably because it is a village." His tone was dry.
Amukelo gave him a flat look. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the reminder."
Idin's stomach let out a deep growl that practically made Pao jump.
"Speaking of reminders," Idin said, rubbing his abdomen with a sheepish expression. "We should find something to eat. I'd love a real meal—not just this old bread all the time. I think my soul's starting to crumble like it."
"I agree," Bral said, already looking around. "We'll find an inn after we eat."
Following the drifting scent of something roasted, they wandered until they came across the largest building on the main road—a two-story pub with faded red paint on the door and ivy creeping along the side. The windows were open, spilling out the sound of laughter, clinking mugs, and the loud buzz of conversation.
The pub was packed. Dozens of tables lined the wide floor, each surrounded by locals and travelers alike. At the center, a man in dark red robes stood on a small platform, reciting something loud and theatrical to a semi-interested crowd. Some clapped, others just kept drinking. The air smelled of roasted pork, strong ale, and sweat from too many people in too small a space.
They managed to find one of the few empty tables near the back. As they sat, a waiter came over, a young man with rolled sleeves and a towel tossed over his shoulder. They ordered quickly—bread, roasted vegetables, some kind of spiced meat stew, and of course, drinks.
As they settled in, Bao leaned back in her chair and asked, "So… how long do we plan to stay here? One night? Two?"
Bral lifted his mug but paused before taking a sip. "I don't know. I was thinking maybe a day or two, just enough to rest and move on."
But then the waiter, who'd just dropped off their mugs of frothy ale, paused when he overheard.
"Oh, you're just passing through?" he asked, brow raised.
Bral blinked. "Yeah. Why?"
The waiter tilted his head. "I thought you came here for it, but I guess not."
"For what?" Bral asked.
"The meteor shower," the waiter said casually, then leaned closer like he was sharing a secret. "It happens once every sixteen years. The whole region gathers here because the view from this hill is one of the best in Elandria. You'll see the whole sky lit up for hours. It's not something you want to miss."
The group exchanged glances. "A meteor shower?" Pao repeated, eyes lighting up. "I've read about them, but I've never actually seen one!"
The waiter smiled. "We're preparing a festival around it—music, food, a whole celebration. That's why the village's so full right now."
Bral rested his mug on the table and looked at the others. "Well… what do you all think?"
Idin gave a casual shrug. "What else is our adventure for if not things like this?"
Amukelo, who'd been sipping slowly and watching the firelight dance on the ceiling beams, nodded. "It sounds like something worth seeing. We've rushed a lot lately. Maybe slowing down for a few days wouldn't be bad."
Bral lifted his mug. "Then it's settled. We're staying a week. Let's eat, drink, and get ready to watch the sky fall."
As the time passed, more and more people started leaving the pub. Chairs scraped against the wood floor as villagers and travelers alike trickled out into the moonlit streets. The barkeep wiped down the counter, and one or two of the staff began stacking stools against the walls in preparation for closing.
As the ambient noise faded, something else rose in its place. It was subtle at first—easy to miss—but soon, the rhythmic cadence of a voice began to stand out above the quiet murmurs and clinking cups. "…you need to repent now!"
It was one of the robed men at the center of the room, now speaking louder and with more certainty than before. He stood atop a low platform—one not built for preaching, but claimed for it nonetheless.
"You can't predict when you will die," he continued, sweeping his gaze across the sparse remaining crowd. "And you need to start working toward your salvation now. Otherwise you will go to hell. God is merciful, but He will not keep His eyes blind toward the ignorant. If you hear the word and do nothing—what then? Will you gamble your soul on the chance that you still have time?"
Bral leaned back in his seat, his face flattening. "Ugh… they're preaching," he muttered, rolling his eyes.
Idin didn't even look up from his plate. He was halfway through what looked like a roasted boar rib and chewing without a care in the world. "And spouting nonsense while they're at it," he said casually. "It's always about doom and eternal punishment. Funny how their god always hates the exact same people they do."
As Bral opened his mouth to say something else, the waiter passed by with a tray full of empty mugs. Bral called him over. "Hey, what's going on with them? Do they do this often?"
The waiter let out a long sigh as he balanced the tray on his shoulder. "Honestly? I don't really know what their deal is. They've been around for a few months now. Say their way is the only way to achieve salvation or something like that. Personally, I don't really believe in any of that stuff. But they help protect the village, so the chief lets them stay. Supposedly, they've dealt with a few bandit groups, and that buys a lot of tolerance."
"Great," Bral said dryly. "So we're letting weird cultists give sermons now because they've got swords and can swing 'em."
The waiter shrugged. "They don't really hurt anyone. Just… preach. A lot. Sometimes in the square, sometimes here. I think they think it's their calling or whatever." He stepped away after that, moving back toward the bar.
Bao was already massaging her temple. "And I thought the noise was annoying," she muttered. "But this? I can't. Let's leave."
"Yeah, let's get out of here," Bral said as he pushed himself to his feet.
The rest of the group rose with him. Pao adjusted her robe, and Idin grabbed the last of his food to go—something wrapped in cloth that looked suspiciously like a pastry. They began making their way toward the door, their footsteps muffled by the wooden floorboards.
But just before they stepped outside, Amukelo paused.
He looked back. The preacher continued, now gesturing with more urgency, speaking of fire and redemption, of judgment and light. The man's face was flushed with conviction, and a few others in similar robes nodded along behind him.
Amukelo's gaze lingered—not with suspicion, but curiosity.
To him, the word "God" was like a half-remembered melody. Something his mother once whispered with reverence. Something warm and gentle, not loud and commanding. "Follow Him," she had told him once. "He's good. He's love." But beyond that? The teachings were lost with her death. He never had anyone explain what God really was. What it meant to follow.
Idin noticed. He was just stepping through the door when he looked over his shoulder and saw the distant look on Amukelo's face. "You curious?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.
Amukelo nodded slightly, eyes still on the robed man. "I don't really know anything about that stuff," he said. "I only heard about it from my mother. She said God was good. Merciful. But I… I don't know what that means. Not really."
Idin sighed and waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. It's important. I'm not saying don't ask questions. But don't try to learn from them." He gestured toward the preachers. "People like that—they twist things. They make it about works and guilt. They spread these made-up ideologies and call them divine truth. I can't say whether or not for sure, but if God is real, they can cause real harm. Because they contradict the real truth."
Amukelo nodded slowly, still watching. The preacher's words faded as the door closed behind them.
Back outside, the night was cool and the stars were beginning to peek through the thin clouds above. The village was quieter now, save for a few groups laughing in the distance or voices echoing from the tavern.