Gwendolyn and I made our way to the tavern where the war council was to be held, the weight of impending doom hung heavy in the air. The streets of Everlight were eerily quiet, the usual bustle replaced by an anxious tension that seemed to seep into every corner of the city.
As we entered the tavern, the atmosphere inside was somber, with the low murmur of voices punctuated by the occasional clink of tankards and the shuffle of boots on wooden floorboards. The other leaders of the order were already gathered around a large table at the center of the room, their faces drawn and grim as they discussed the impending threat. I was surprised not to see either Fiona or Sir Michael there.
Gwendolyn led me to the table, where I took a seat next to her, feeling a sense of trepidation wash over me. The other leaders turned to us as we approached, their expressions grave as they took in the sight of Gwendolyn and me. There were only three of them—less than I had anticipated.
