The reception hall was quiet despite being filled with people. The long tables, usually a place of chatter and noise, stood empty, lit only by the faint glow of mana lamps embedded into the walls. The air was thick, heavy with silence.
Noel stepped into the hall, his boots echoing against the stone. Every gaze shifted toward him for a moment, then fell back into the stillness. He moved past the tables, taking in the sight of his companions.
Marcus sat hunched forward in a chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tightly until his knuckles whitened. His brown eyes were fixed on the floor, distant and hollow.
"This is my fault," Marcus muttered, voice breaking. "If I had been stronger, if I had done more, maybe none of this—"
"Stop." Clara's voice broke through the air, steady and firm. She sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her tone was gentle, but resolute. "It's not your fault, Marcus. Not this. None of us could have stopped it."
