The footsteps crossed the threshold without haste, each one measured, unbothered by the wreckage that filled the café. They stopped just short of the broken doorway, and a voice followed, rough with irritation rather than alarm.
"What did you do this time?" the old man said, tone sharp and dismissive. "How hard is it to deal with two children?"
He stepped into view then and remained there, framed by splintered wood and spilled light. It was the same elder from before, posture upright, expression set in practiced authority. For a heartbeat, he simply looked.
Then his eyes widened.
The bodies came into focus first. Blood pooled across the floor. Limbs lay where they had fallen. Those still alive were unconscious, bound tightly where they'd collapsed, Bartholomew kneeling among them with rope still in his hands. The room told the story in full, and the old man's confidence evaporated with it.
Shock froze him in place.
He didn't get time to speak.
