Torwan walked ahead with firm, purposeful strides, his long crimson cloak brushing against the stone floor beneath them. The corridor they followed was dimly lit by soft blue mana-lamps embedded into the stone walls, casting faint glows along the runes etched into the rock. The air was dense with the scent of iron, old smoke, and distant alchemical residue.
Behind him, Noel and Balthor trailed by a few steps, both clad in their formal outfits—Noel in his dark green suit, Balthor in deep crimson. Their masks still covered their faces, maintaining the guise of Estermont representatives. Their footsteps echoed faintly, though their voices did not. They spoke in near whispers, low enough that no one without magical enhancement or a specific item could hear them.
Noel kept his eyes ahead but leaned slightly toward Balthor. "This place turned out to be more than just an underground restaurant or a den for illegal bets," he murmured. "It has its own fighting arena too."
