The waiting room was small and windowless. Marron sat on a wooden bench, hands folded in her lap, the Blade resting across her knees. Aldric paced, his footsteps echoing off stone walls. Lucy's jar sat between them, the slime's glow cycling through uncertain colors—teal to gray to teal again, like a heartbeat that couldn't find its rhythm.
The Cart, Pot, and Ladle waited in the corner. All three were still recovering from the fight, their presences dim but stable. The Cart's broken wheel had been properly repaired by the Society's craftspeople—they'd done good work, Marron had to admit. The wheel no longer scraped. But the Cart still moved slowly, carefully, like someone recovering from injury who didn't quite trust their body yet.
"They're taking too long," Aldric said for the third time. "Is that good or bad?"
