In the heart of the chamber, silence hung thick like a heavy fog, wrapping around stone walls and pressing down on weary lungs.
It was the kind of quiet that felt almost oppressive, as if it were trying to smother any spark of creativity.
Scattered across a long oak table were ink-stained papers, their edges curled from spilled candle wax,remnants of late nights spent in fervent discussion.
The air was heavy with the scent of singed parchment mingling with the sharp tang of spent mana crystals, leaving an unsettling metallic taste lingering at the back of one's throat.
Dozens of artisans surrounded the table, their shoulders drooping under the weight of fatigue.
Runesmiths rubbed at their wrists, where faint glows from etched glyph dust still clung stubbornly to their fingers.
Blacksmiths sat with soot-streaked arms crossed over chests broad as anvils, while alchemists hunched over notes, eyes glassy from countless sleepless nights.
