Inside the Slave Trade Guild, a thick, suffocating tension filled the small, dimly lit room.
The chamber was buried deep beneath layers of stone and reinforced walls, far removed from the noise of the town above.
Flickering lantern light cast long, distorted shadows across the cold stone floor, making the hooded figures standing within appear like specters rather than living men.
A group clad entirely in black hooded robes stood frozen in place, speaking only in hushed voices, as though even the walls themselves might betray them.
Gilbert stood at the center of the room.
His hands were clasped behind his back, his shoulders stiff, his brow tightly furrowed.
His gaze moved slowly across the faces of his trusted subordinates, lingering on each expression of unease, fear, and uncertainty.
"We've underestimated him…" Gilbert whispered at last.
His voice was low, barely louder than a breath, yet it carried enough weight to silence the room completely.
