The morning after the Mages' Guild accepted our ridiculous terms, the atmosphere in the dungeon was... strange. The usual, peaceful quiet had been replaced by a tense, buzzing energy, a mixture of disbelief, anxiety, and FaeLina's pure, unadulterated glee.
She was in a blur of ecstatic, profitable
motion, zipping back and forth in the lobby with a new, very official-looking abacus. She wasn't celebrating the money we had; she was calculating the money we were about to have, based on the "initial advance" promised in High Magus Elara's reply.
The team, on the other hand, was just trying to process the fact that their home was about to become a long-term, well-funded research project.
Gilda was sharpening her axe with a grim, rhythmic focus that was much more aggressive than usual. Pip was stress-eating a scone under a table, while Clank gently patted his back in a gesture of robotic solidarity.
