The evening descended upon Windermere with an unnatural stillness, the village wrapped in an eerie quiet, as though the very land itself knew of the dread that would soon befall it. The mist had thickened once more, its tendrils creeping through the cobbled streets like ghostly fingers, obscuring all but the faintest flickers of torchlight from the distant homes. Inside "The King’s Heart," Rosé and Helene sat in silence, the weight of the messenger's warning heavy on their minds.
The fire crackled faintly in the hearth, but even its warmth felt hollow.
Helene's hand rested limply at her side, the wound where her arm had been now an aching reminder of their failure, of the power they faced. Her eyes, once fierce and blazing with resolve, were dull, hollowed by pain and shame. She, the mighty warrior who had stood against Lalana, now sat crippled and silent, her strength drained not just from her body, but from her very soul.