The sky was overcast by the time Inigo and Lyra left the Guildhall.
What began as a steady wind had turned into a biting gale, tugging at the hems of their cloaks and whispering through the narrow streets of Elandra. The city felt different now—less celebratory than it had been the night before. After weeks of peace, the sudden assignment carried a familiar tension.
They walked side by side through the western gate, passing sentries who gave short nods of respect. News traveled fast in Elandra. The moment word spread that another rift had opened—and so close, no less—there wasn't time for hesitation.
Lyra glanced over as they passed a bakery. "Still think that pastry was worth it?"
"Honestly?" Inigo adjusted his pack. "Might be the last one I get for a while. So yes."
