The tavern known as Woodlight wasn't much to look at from the outside—old stone foundation, warped wooden beams, a slanted sign creaking with every gust of wind. But inside, the warmth of firelight and the low hum of clinking mugs gave it a rustic charm.
A group of five sat at a long table near the hearth.
Zyon.
Art.
Freya.
Amelia.
Evelyn.
They hadn't spoken much since they sat down. Not out of tension, but because there was nothing new to say. Each of them had spent the better part of the day scouring Cybele for leads—asking questions, listening to rumors, watching from the shadows.
And they'd all come up with the same answer.
Nothing.
Amelia was the first to break the silence.
Her voice was calm, but the edge of frustration was unmistakable.
"Did any of you find anything?" she asked, eyes flicking from face to face. "Because I didn't. Not a single clue. It's like the people here have all taken some oath to stay silent."
