The silence that followed was worse than before. They slumped in perfect unison—fairy, elf, rogue, warrior, and plush knight—all crushed beneath the absurd weight of a single, missing bottle of ink.
For a long time, the only movement in the room was the silent, mocking pulse of the glowing form on the wall. Gilda, having put her head in her hands, had become a statue dedicated to a headache.
But a rogue can only endure so much quiet inaction. It felt... unprofessional.
It was Pip who finally broke the silence.
"Okay," he whispered, reaching into a hidden pocket in his boot. "I have… a backup." He produced a tiny, corked vial filled with a thick, murky, and deeply unappealing black liquid.
The team leaned in, with a tiny spark of hope in their eyes.
