That night, in the small room of the "Black Stone Restaurant" inn, the atmosphere felt calmer than the previous days. The beeswax candle burned dimly on the old wooden table, its golden-yellow light softly reflecting off the worn, dark wooden walls. The mountain night wind blew gently through the gaps in the wooden window, carrying a bone-piercing cold and the faint scent of wet forest mixed with soil and leaves. Outside, the sounds of the city began to fade; only the occasional footsteps of the remaining guards on the stone streets, the distant barking of stray dogs, or the rustling of torches in the wind could be heard.
