A week had passed since the parlay, and the city of Bricaterun remained enveloped in an uneasy stillness. Lord Ilbert Hervius sat alone in his private chamber, a place of muted opulence, with dark oak paneling and a single window letting in slivers of pale daylight. The air was heavy with the scent of wax and ink.
The last days had been uneventful, the kind of quiet that felt tenuous, like the calm before a storm. No banners of war had been unfurled, no shouts of skirmish rang from the battlements, and the siege lines beyond the walls showed no sign of movement. Both sides adhered to the uneasy agreement brokered during the parlay; neither party had any interest in spilling blood unnecessarily when a bloodless compromise was still within reach.
