While the Heroes' Party continued their heated debate across the Great Hall, Master Omares stood near the hearth, entirely detached from their bickering.
His blank, white eyes were fixed on the far end of the room, where Duke Ithalan was frantically whispering orders to a group of servants.
To the untrained eye, the Duke was simply a lord managing a crisis. But to the Great Scholar, Ithalan was a glass vessel filled with cracking ice.
Omares watched quietly, almost like he wasn't even there, studying the minute tremors in the Duke's hands, the erratic pulse beating at his neck.
It was almost like all of his hidden secrets were practically leaking from his pores.
The man was terrified, and it wasn't just because of the dead Elven royal in his forest.
As Ithalan dismissed the last of the servants with a trembling wave, Omares stepped away from the hearth. His footsteps made absolutely no sound on the marble floor.
"Duke Ithalan," Omares called out.
