The great hall was empty at this hour, the fires burning low, the shadows long and deep. The torches in their iron sconces had burned down to flickering stubs, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls that seemed to move and breathe like living things. The benches where warriors had sat during the evening meal were empty now, the tables cleared, and the crumbs swept away. The only sound was the soft crackle of the dying flames and the distant howl of the wind outside the walls.
Elara sat alone at the high table, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. The liquid was dark and bitter, untouched for hours. She had not been sleeping. The weight of the past days pressed down on her, heavy and unrelenting, stealing her rest, stealing her peace, stealing the warmth from her heart. The shadows under her eyes were deep, darker than she had ever seen them, and her hands trembled slightly as she held the cup.
She watched them.
