The chaos of the palace had been extinguished more thoroughly than any bucket of water could manage.
The white-haired adolescents were gone. No more teenagers leapt from the rooftops; no windows shattered under the shockwaves of practice duels. Even the grass, once trampled flat by thousands of restless feet, now grew tall and undisturbed.
Of the original thousand, only 142 remained. They were the last of King Drakovitch's first "Seed and Harvest"—the youngest, the final "ripening" fruit of a dying season.
The Grand Hall was empty, save for this final batch. They huddled in the shadows like ghosts. Some shook, some wept, and some simply clung to one another in a silence so heavy it felt like lead. They were waiting for the night to fall.
The Grand Hero's Statue stood in absolute peace, and that peace was the most terrifying thing about it. No water buckets slammed into its pedestal. No steam hissed from its head. There was no one left to play.
