Trust was never something Pax learned to value lightly. In his experience, trust wasn't freely given; it was spent, and once squandered, it rarely returned at full value.
The morning unfolded like any other in the small courtyard that quietly served as the heart of the Grey Veil.
To the outside world, it appeared to be a modest soup charity funded by sympathetic donors, a place where thin bowls of broth were handed out to hollow hands without too many questions asked.
Steam rose from iron pots, wooden benches creaked under weary bodies, and voices murmured softly, blending into a dull hum that would hardly catch the attention of any passerby.
Yet beneath this calm facade, something had shifted.
Pax sensed it long before any tangible evidence reached him. It wasn't panic or fear; it was a subtle imbalance, like a missing note in a familiar melody or silence where there should have been sound. Information that should have arrived by midmorning had not.
