Night cloaked the valley in chilled silence, shrouding rooftops with dew and stillness.
Somewhere near the heart of Everhart territory, in an ordinary-looking house nestled between two quiet inns, the ordinary ceased.
Five figures sat in a semicircle within a well-kept drawing room. The fire crackled, casting orange flickers across the floorboards.
Curtains were drawn. The air smelled faintly of spiced tea, porcelain clinks breaking the otherwise flawless quiet.
Each of them wore a mask—elaborate, sharp, and molded in the shape of the Hearty Bull from the Mythria continent.
A symbol of aggression and tenacity. A reminder of what they were planning to unleash.
Three women. Two men. All seated like nobles. All deadly.
The woman in the black mask leaned slightly forward. Her voice was smooth, deliberate. "Any word from the higher-ups?"
