The sky, caught in the liminal space between day and night, was a murky violet, casting an eerie glow over the horizon. A procession of people trudged forward like a stream of ants, their long, weary shadows stretching across the ground. The air was thick with exhaustion and despair, clinging to the crowd like an oppressive shroud.
Amid this somber scene stood a grand ebony carriage adorned with gilded embellishments gleaming faintly in the dim light. Unmistakably, it belonged to the Isles Guild, a glaring emblem of wealth among the shabby wagons and dilapidated carts. Shylock’s aide stood beside the carriage, shivering as he eyed the stagnant queue. His gaze flickered nervously between the crowd and the gates ahead.
“Never mind the line not moving… I’ve never seen such an ominous gathering,” he muttered under his breath. “I just hope the gods don’t curse me for being here.”
