The upper level of the refugee ward was a place of heavy, suffocating silence.
Outside, the rain hammered against the stone roof of Ravenspire, a relentless drumming that drowned out the soft snores of hundreds of exhausted people.
These were the survivors of the Northern Valley, families who had lost their homes to fire and were now squeezed together on the cold stone floor.
The air was thick with the smell of wet wool, unwashed bodies, and the faint, sweet scent of the herbs the healers burned to keep the fever away.
Most of the refugees slept in tangled heaps, clutching whatever rags they had left.
The few Guild guards on night watch moved like shadows along the walls, their lanterns casting long, nervous light across the crowded room.
The first sign that something was wrong was not a sound, but a feeling.
A faint, rhythmic vibration began to pulse through the flagstones, so soft it could have been mistaken for the beating of a distant heart.
