The bruise on Soren's ribs had finally turned from purple to a sickly yellow-green, but the memory of Sylas remained as fresh as an open wound.
Three weeks had passed since their return to Northaven, three weeks of whispers that followed him through House Velrane's halls like persistent shadows. The expedition's survivors had scattered to their respective houses, but the stain of failure clung to them all.
Lords who had once boasted of hunting glory now spoke in hushed tones of strategy and preparation. Knights who had fled before Sylas's blade now trained with desperate intensity, as if steel and sweat could wash away the shame.
