Beric, Zander, Ivan, Roland, Ozias and Odran were all gathered in the small lounge of the inn they had rented, their usual easy camaraderie replaced by a thick, uncomfortable silence that clung to the air like damp fog.
The wooden clock mounted crookedly on the wall ticked far louder than it need to, every tick seemingly louder than the one before. Every second felt like a taunt.
All six men found their gazes drifting, again and again, toward the same figure sprawled across the worn lounge chair in the center of the room.
Prince Adam Burchard, he lay there unconscious and frighteninly still.
"I think you hit him too hard," Beric finally said, his voice cutting through the silence like a cautious blade. His arms were folded, but his fingers tapped restlessly against his sleeve. "What if he doesn't wake up?"
Zander, who had been leaning lazily against the wall with his arms crossed, scoffed.
"Oh, come on. It was just a tap."
