The tavern hadn't emptied.
By the time Karl and Lucy stepped through the door again, the air was heavier than before. The silver lanterns burned low, smoke curled thick enough to sting the eyes, and the voices of beasts—wolves, boars, serpents, foxkin—rose and fell in waves of rumor and anger. Refugees still filled the benches, clutching their mugs as though the bitter drink could chase away dread.
Karl smirked faintly, pushing his hood lower as he shouldered past a group of vultures muttering about wings torn from the sky. Lucy trailed close behind, quiet as ever, though her eyes swept the room the way they always did—sharp, measuring, ready.
At the corner table, Lucian waited.
He hadn't moved since they'd left. Hood shadowed his face, cloak loose, but there was no mistaking the stillness about him, the weight that pulled the air tight. The crowd gave him space without realizing why.
