The Hydra hideout hadn't changed. Same narrow archways carved into dark rock. Same low haze of incense and salt, thick enough to bite the tongue. Arthur stepped through the outer ward with his cloak damp from sea wind, ready to greet his crew, ready for quiet words and a plan reviewed.
He wasn't ready for the silence.
Not full silence. The kind that follows laughter when something in the room shifts. Conversations dropped to murmurs. A few Hydra members stiffened, glancing not toward Arthur but toward the central table ringed in shadow.
Fedlimid sat there.
Melite stood beside him, pressing a drink into his hand. The glass tilted slightly as he took a sip, his fingers trembling against the surface. But his eyes never moved. They stared ahead, locked on a point no one else could see.
Not just blank. Not just distant.
Ill.
