In a kingdom as vast and industrial as Sanctum, the morning was usually a chaotic symphony of life. It was the rumble of iron-rimmed wheels on cobblestones, the shouting of fishmongers haggling over the night's catch, and the rhythmic, metallic clang of the blacksmiths waking their fires. It was a noise that signified blood pumping through the veins of the empire.
But today, the silence that hung over the streets was heavier than the morning fog. It was a suffocating, unnatural quiet, the kind that settles over a house before a funeral.
Mirabelle stood in the War Room, staring down at the logistical map of the city spread across the oak table. Her coffee, poured an hour ago, sat untouched and cold, a film forming on its surface. Beside her, Commander Varric looked like a man vibrating with suppressed violence.
