Inside the inn, the air was warm and faintly scented with aged wood and cheap alcohol.
A single oil lamp burned on the table between them, its flame flickering softly.
Thoren sat across from Rowena, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable.
Rowena clasped her hands tightly in her lap as she recounted everything that had happened.
From the moment they entered the Federation Police Building, to the suffocating undead energy, to the desperate chase through the streets.
Her voice wavered at times, but she forced herself to continue, unwilling to omit even the smallest detail.
Throughout her narration, Thoren did not react.
No surprise.
No anger.
No concern.
It was as if she were describing an uneventful afternoon rather than a brush with death.
"If you had not stepped out…" Her voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
The implication hung heavily in the air.
She would have been captured.
Or worse.
