Chapter 82: When Gods Vanish...
The tavern was dim, thick with smoke and murmurs. A fire crackled low in the hearth, it painted flickers of gold over stained wood and worn faces. The snow outside piled high against the window, but inside, the air was warm with tension and drink.
Men huddled close around a battered table, tankards in hand, whispers tighter than fists. The walls groaned as the wind outside howled—a cold reminder of the world beyond.
"Ain’t it strange," one man said, his breath steaming in the air, "how quiet it’s been?"
He was lean, with greying stubble and a coat that had seen too many winters. His eyes—half-shut and half-wary—swept the room before he leaned in closer.
"I thought things were gonna get rough the moment the Emperor dropped dead."
"Aye," another agreed swiftly, slamming his mug down with a soft thunk. "Whole empire was supposed to catch fire by now. But here we are, three months in... and not even a whimper."
A third man, younger, twirled his spoon in a bowl of thick soup. "Maybe it’s the calm before the storm."
"Storm should’ve come already," the greybeard muttered. "The fight for the throne should be blood-deep by now."
The youngest among them—barely older than twenty—glanced sideways before whispering, "Maybe it already has."
The others paused. Turning to look at him eager to hear his thoughts, they knew him for his conspiracies that turned out to be truth more often than not.
He leaned forward, voice barely audible over the creak of the inn’s boards. "No one’s seen the Princess. Not in almost six months. Not even a whisper. What do you think happened?"
The table went quiet. Then someone muttered, "...You think her brothers killed her?"