The tavern was dim, thick with smoke and murmurs. A fire crackled low in the hearth, it painted flickers of gold over stained wood and worn faces. The snow outside piled high against the window, but inside, the air was warm with tension and drink.
Men huddled close around a battered table, tankards in hand, whispers tighter than fists. The walls groaned as the wind outside howled—a cold reminder of the world beyond.
"Ain't it strange," one man said, his breath steaming in the air, "how quiet it's been?"
He was lean, with greying stubble and a coat that had seen too many winters. His eyes—half-shut and half-wary—swept the room before he leaned in closer.
"I thought things were gonna get rough the moment the Emperor dropped dead."
"Aye," another agreed swiftly, slamming his mug down with a soft thunk. "Whole empire was supposed to catch fire by now. But here we are, three months in... and not even a whimper."
