Into the Crown

The descent from the Tithe chamber was not simply quiet—it was funeral silence. The kind of silence that followed death, not just of the body, but of belief. It wrapped around them like a burial shroud, thick and suffocating, pressing against lungs and minds alike. Not even Thyra dared to break it. Her usual poison-laced tongue, the sharpest blade in her arsenal, remained sheathed. Her eyes, normally flicking with mischief or scorn, were wide and unblinking—haunted. Kord, ever the unshakable, marched with iron rhythm, but even his footsteps lacked their usual confidence. He did not speak. He didn't need to. His silence was thunderous. Veyna's mouth moved in desperate repetition, but not a single syllable emerged. Her gods had gone quiet. She was mouthing prayers more for comfort than deliverance now—like a child whispering a nursery rhyme during a nightmare.