Six hours had passed since the chaos in the throne hall. The screams had stopped. The bodies had been removed. The blood on the floor had been scrubbed until only faint stains remained. The hall smelled of herbs used to mask the stench of death, but nothing could entirely hide it. The kingdom had survived, but the weight of what happened hung over the room and over everyone inside it.
Aveloria stood in the middle of the hall with Theron, Lucien, and Galen close by. Torvald stood farther off with the king, Alaric, and a few elders. The atmosphere was tense. Everyone looked tired. Everyone looked shaken. They had fought for hours, and even though most of the Wanderers had been killed, the fear they left behind still lingered.
Torvald looked exhausted. His eyes were red, as if he hadn't blinked in a long time. He held his hands behind his back, but the slight tremble in them was visible whenever he shifted his weight.
