A few minutes before everything began, the world felt almost… calm.
Which was a lie.
I could hear the distant churn of soldiers moving through the Ivyend district, disguised in festival cloaks, shields hidden under canvas, boots muffled against damp cobbles.
Somewhere up above, the faint scrape of metal on stone as blades were drawn and checked, one by one.
I could smell the sharp tang of oil on new-forged weapons, mingling with the mildew that clung to these old underground walls.
Someone had doused the nearby lanterns to keep shadows intact, so the air felt close, heavy, as though the night itself was holding its breath.
We stood near the mouth of the old conductor's tunnel, where the collapsed opera house sagged into itself like a dying beast, exactly as the letter had described.
Lysandra was on my left, steady hands moving through the last check of our weapons and mana potions, her face drawn but determined.
