When Kael pushed open the door to the faction office, the scene that greeted him was less "Headquarters of a Rising Power" and more "Aftermath of a Natural Disaster."
The room was small—claustrophobically so.
It smelled of old parchment, damp wood, and the distinct, musk-like scent of teenage exhaustion. The flickering mana-lamp on the ceiling cast long, dancing shadows over four bodies that were scattered across the room in various states of decomposition.
Rylen was draped face-down over the singular, rickety table, one arm hanging limp, drool pooling near his nose. Liri was curled up in a ball in the corner on a pile of spare cloaks, looking like a traumatized hedgehog. Seraphina was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, eyes closed, head tilted back as if praying for the sweet release of unconsciousness.
Even Theo, usually the picture of composure, was slumped in his chair, staring blankly at a dust mote floating in the air.
