The Great Hall of the Golden Coin Fortress had never felt this large before.
Usually, the morning air vibrated with the chaos of a living guild. Barnaby would be shouting at subordinates about profit margins.
Leona would be arguing with the chefs about the meat-to-vegetable ratio of her breakfast.
Lyra would be testing new bowstrings, the sharp twang punctuating the conversation.
Today, the silence pressed against the stone walls, heavy and suffocating.
Damien sat at the head of the long mahogany table. He stared at his black coffee, watching the steam curl into nothingness.
To his left, Leona cut her steak with surgical precision. Her new mechanical arm whirred softly with every movement, a constant, rhythmic reminder of how much they had lost and gained in the last few months.
To his right, Lyra picked at a piece of toast. She wasn't eating. Her eyes were fixed on the window, looking toward the distant eastern tree line.
