The first rays of dawn cut through the city of Avila, spilling across stone streets still stained with the remnants of celebration. The taverns were silent now, save for the snores of adventurers slumped over tables or sprawled on benches.
Inside the guild's great hall, the air was heavy with the smell of ale and sweat. Dozens of adventurers groaned as they tried to wake, some clutching their heads, others dragging themselves toward the baths to wash off the night's excess.
But not Alex.
He sat at a table near the back, as composed as though he hadn't touched a single drop of alcohol. A mug of steaming tea rested in his hand, his crimson eyes half-lidded as he quietly watched the chaos of morning unfold. The faint smirk on his lips betrayed his amusement. He had drunk more than most the night before, yet his body—and will—remained steady.
A sharp sound echoed.
Clack.
