Cyrus sat in a dimly lit room, his posture unnervingly calm, as if the weight of the night's events hadn't touched him. His clothes remained the same, the bloodstains from earlier still there as they stuck to him, a silent testament to the chaos that unfolded some time ago. His face betrayed nothing, but his eyes, that flashed from time to time, reflected the storm of thoughts raging within.
Dagan stood nearby, leaning against the wall. Blood, his own mostly, streaked his once-pristine attire, and his breathing carried the faint strain of someone recently healed. Several potions had mended his body, but the toll of the night's mistakes weighed heavily on his pride. He paid dearly for one mistake.
He cursed himself inwardly, his fists clenching and unclenching at the memory of how easily they had been played. The obviousness of the scheme hit him like a slap to the face, jolting him awake, but he was powerless to alter the past.
