Inside the castle of Shiyan Town, the air was heavy enough to drip, thick with the smell of sweat, ale, and an unspeakable tension.
Glenn was curled up on the ground, the breastplate of his armor deeply caved in.
Every breath tugged at his wounds, and the spit he coughed up was flecked with blood—he had just finished giving an utterly humiliating report.
The great hall was deathly silent, the only sound the CRACKLE of firewood bursting in the brazier, mercilessly mocking the assembled warriors.
Ola Stonebeard rose from his stone seat, his heavy iron boots pacing across the floor. Each step felt like it was treading on the hearts of all who were present.
He clutched the shard of glass he had confiscated from Glenn, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.
He rubbed it over and over, as if trying to parse the source of his utter humiliation from its faint, peculiar odor.
He stopped in front of Glenn, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Tell me again. What did it smell like?"
