Veynar guards swarmed into the grand hall, their movements brisk and practiced.
Hemp ropes bound the thirty-nine kneeling Zharun warriors securely, as they surrendered without any resistance, their weapons kicked aside and stacked in a clattering pile in the center of the chamber.
Outside, the sounds of fighting were dying down, replaced by the organized cadence of Veynar patrols securing the streets, extinguishing the rogue fires, and corralling the remaining population into the central square for better management.
Sol stepped over the body of the axe-wielder, casually shaking his hand to flick off a drop of blood. His crimson eyes swept past the groveling Captain Barkan, focusing entirely on the rear of the Great Lodge.
At the back of the dirt dais, behind the cracked throne, stood a low opening carved directly into the mountain wall. A thick, heavy slab of rough grey stone sealed the dark tunnel, wedged tightly into place with heavy timber logs and wedge stones.
