Three days later.
Nightfall enveloped the capital city of Keter, pressing heavily upon the entire city.
The sky was devoid of stars and moon, with leaden gray clouds as heavy as iron, stifling and windless, the air thick like congealed grease, each breath carrying a faint scent of rust and sewage.
The streets were unusually quiet, even the usual hoots of night owls and barks of wild dogs had vanished, leaving only the cold glow of the magic lamps in the inner city towers, slicing through the vast, heart-palpitating darkness of the outer city.
An invisible tension stretched tight in the deathly silence, like a fully drawn bow, just waiting for the sound of tearing silk.
This calm was the suffocating stillness before the storm, the breath held by the earth under the gaze of the abyss.
The gaze turned towards the heart of the city—the Royal Palace Castle of Keter standing in the very center of the inner city.
