New Drakhal was never a quiet city.
Even in days of mourning, life kept moving. Markets stayed open, forges rang with steel, and apprentices shouted firm commands in the rune academies. But in recent days, what echoed most often were whispers. And whispers, when they grow, make more noise than any war drum.
I woke early that morning, after a dreamless night. What should have been a relief only deepened the discomfort. It felt like the silence within me mirrored what was happening outside — a pause before collapse.
I went down to the main hall, where the reports arrived. I expected the usual: troop movements, delayed provisions, border updates. But the first document handed to me was sealed with a symbol I had never seen before — the crest of the Myrdar cult.
I opened it carefully.
