The Weight Behind an Apology
Victor had just left the Guild Master's room and was heading straight toward the pub inside the Adventurers Guild. The moment he stepped out into the main hall, the atmosphere shifted around him—voices overlapping, laughter spilling from tables, mugs clashing, boots scraping across wooden floors worn by years of restless movement.
The guild was alive.
Messy.
Unpredictable.
Still, nothing reached him.
He moved forward without changing speed, arms loose at his sides, eyes quiet. Not far away on the left, men roared with joy - someone tipping sideways while another brought drink crashing onto wood, liquid leaping outward. Air hung heavy: smoke from flames, charred flesh, sharp sting of spirits, damp bodies, cold iron. Each breath pulled it deeper.
Victor didn't look.
Didn't react.
