But they did hear it close—with a soft, deliberate click that felt louder than it should have.
Gaius looked up mid-sip. Vell stopped talking mid-joke.
Three figures stood just inside the Chethollow’s flickering doorway:
A tall, grim-faced man in a regulation Duskwell coat.
A pale assistant with a satchel and eyes like empty signal ports.
And Lyra.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just raised one eyebrow.
Gaius set his drink down slowly.
> “You’re early,” he said.
> “You’re drunk,” she replied.
Draven Holt—Field Oversight Officer, by posture alone—ignored the exchange entirely. He stepped forward like the bar owed him something.
> “Perenos. Arseth.” His voice was dry. Not unfriendly. Just
too efficient. “We were told you’d be waiting upstairs. Not... sampling local anomalies.”
Vell raised his mug in a lazy salute.
> “We were checking the local flavor. Got hit with something between floor cleaner and a poor life choice.”
Draven didn’t laugh. Or react.
Behind him, Lin Sorell quietly tapped something into his datapad. Never looking up.
> “You’ve been briefed on the incident parameters?” Draven asked Gaius.
> “Define ‘briefed,’” Gaius said, standing. “We read the whispers. Tasted the fog. Dug a body count out of drone static.”
> “Then you’ll be able to follow the rest in silence,” Draven replied.
Lyra stepped forward before the tension could settle into something worse.
> “We’ve secured a room upstairs. There’s mapping data, hazard profiles, and a preliminary route draft. Thought you’d want to see it before anyone else touched it.”
Gaius nodded once, already moving.
Vell lingered just long enough to drain his mug, slap a coin on the table, and mutter:
> “Best briefing I’ve ever had. Five stars. No cult symbols in the drinks this time.”
They filed upstairs in silence.
The table behind them pulsed faintly once more—spiral carving barely visible under the condensation ring.
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