Raphael Earhart
After Renald and Liana gave a respectful bow, Erin and I quickly joined them, helping escort the detained nobles—the same ones who, even in chains, clung to the desperate hope of blending into the flow of other prisoners that had filled the registration hall.
Their despair was palpable even from a distance. Some could barely keep their legs steady. Others kept glancing over their shoulders, scanning for a chance to bolt.
But there was nowhere left to run.
Now, everyone was gathered in a single space—tension hanging thick in the air. The wounded slaves lay in the center, tended to by Mark, who was doing what he could to ease their suffering under the watchful eye of Elias. The captured nobles, nervously pressed to the edges of the room, shifted restlessly under Liana's cold, unblinking gaze. And the rest of us were left trying to maintain some semblance of order in this stifling, heavy chamber, thick with dread.
