Seated at the far end of the rectangular table, Hans gazed wearily out the conference room window. His tawny hair was an unkempt mess, and his ashen complexion gave him the look of decayed leather stretched over a skull.
“A public execution seems pointless in this fog,” he muttered. “No one will be able to see anything.”
Outside, the world was shrouded in a dismal gray haze. The castle seemed engulfed by the low-hanging clouds, the mist pressing against the windows like a silent, watchful presence. Despite the damp air, the mood in the room was unusually relaxed—an ease born not of confidence, but from the empty seat at the head of the table. Their lord had yet to arrive.
Hans turned his tired eyes toward Valks, seated directly across from him. “There seems to be an unusually high number of executions this month, don’t you think?” he remarked. “The Cadis guards must be having a rough time.”
