"Gentlemen—"
"It is our turn to save our Kingdom!"
A rainy night, on the outskirts of Roland City.
The tavern's front door was tightly shut; it had closed early, and only that single thread of lamplight leaking through the gap in the curtains foretold that the people inside had not yet gone to sleep.
Shapes wrapped in cloaks sat around the tavern's oak tables, every gaze fixed upon the man standing behind the bar.
There was no cheering.
Nor any applause.
For there was no need.
It was not today that they had returned here; they had been preparing for this moment for a long time, only in recent days letting that unbearable fury at last erupt.
They drained their final cups in silence, then rose one after another, pulling their cloaks tight as they melted into the stifling, rain‑soaked night.
Their movements were swift, their discipline severe, like an army in which orders were absolute.
Or rather, that is precisely what they were.
