Nights in Vorkund were never truly silent, but within the Hall of Gear, the stillness felt so thick that heartbeats sounded like war drums. Emperor Volco remained awake. His back no longer rested upright; he was hunched over piles of reports scattered across the cold marble floor. The scent of engine oil and hot steam, which usually brought him comfort, was now stifled by a suffocating aroma of anxiety.
The reports from the southern border read as if written by a madman. Two elite divisions vanished without a trace. Two prideful Heroes gone. Not a single carrier pigeon or steam signal had returned with good news. Volco sat on his throne, his fingers trembling slightly as they tapped against the armrest—Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythm was monotonous, a futile attempt to balance the turmoil in his head as he sought logical answers amidst the impossible.
