The Walker Clan Hall did not sleep. Lamps burned low through the night, their flames steady but subdued, casting long shadows that clung to the carved pillars and refused to move. The hall was quiet in the way only places of expectation could be—no conversation, no pacing, no raised voices—just presence.
Zilton Walker sat at the head of the hall, hands resting on the arms of his chair, posture unchanged from the previous evening. His eyes were open, unfocused, fixed on nothing particularly. He did not ask for updates. He did not summon messengers. He waited.
The elders stood or sat along the sides, each in their accustomed place. At first, there had been confidence—unspoken, but shared. The cultivators chosen had been reliable. Quiet. Experienced in their work. The plan had been clean.
