CHAPTER 200: TOO QUIET

The words hung between them, heavier than the steam rising from the fryer.

Lyra hadn’t said it as a joke. Not the way she sometimes softened her sharp edges with a crooked smile. She said it with her bow still resting against the counter, her fingers tapping the grain of the wood like a drumbeat only she could hear.

"The demons," she repeated. "It’s been too quiet."

Inigo set the oil strainer aside, his hands steady but his brow set. "Quiet isn’t peace. Quiet is waiting."

Riko looked up from the till, nervous. "You mean... like when the plaza goes silent right before someone throws a punch?"

"Exactly," Inigo said.

Maddy swallowed. "So what do we do?"

Lyra glanced at Inigo. "We ask. The guild should have eyes wider than ours."

He nodded once. "Then we go."

They left the stall in Riko and Maddy’s hands, a chalkboard scrawl promising BACK SOON — COOKING BUSINESS. It wasn’t untrue. Just not the kind of business the customers expected.

The guildhall loomed ahead, not louder than usual but... taut. Like the silence of a bowstring pulled to its furthest draw. Guards at the steps wore expressions carved from stone, and scribes moved with purpose sharp enough to cut.

Inside, voices hushed when Inigo and Lyra entered. Platinum seals had that effect. Some eyes filled with reverence, others with resentment, but none dared indifference.

Elise found them first, as she always did, emerging from a hallway with a sheaf of papers under one arm and a smirk that was thinner than usual. "What brings the cook and the archer? Don’t tell me you’ve run out of potatoes."

Lyra didn’t rise to it. "Demons."

Elise’s stride faltered for a beat. She tilted her head. "What about them?"

"Too quiet," Inigo said simply.

She led them into a side chamber, smaller than the tribunal halls, lined with pigeonholes stuffed with scrolls and maps. The table bore ink stains like battle scars, and a faint smell of wax hung in the air.

"You’re not wrong," Elise admitted, setting her papers down. "The guild’s been tracking... absences." She pulled a folder from the stack and flipped it open, showing rows of neat script broken by blotches where scribes had pressed too hard. "No sightings of the Lord of Destruction’s agents in three weeks. No major raids, no shadow markets, no whispers in the undercity."

"Which is wrong," Lyra said flatly. "They don’t stop."

"They pause," Elise corrected. "To plan. To let us get comfortable." She tapped one entry. "But there’s one report, from the western watch. Smoke on the horizon, fields burned, but no bodies. No survivors. Not even livestock. Just empty. That’s what keeps the guild awake at night."

Inigo leaned on the table, reading without touching. "Cleansing," he said quietly. "Like wiping a board."

Lyra’s jaw tightened. "Or a warning."

Thorne arrived as if summoned by their words. The guildmaster moved like a man who hadn’t slept, sleeves rolled, eyes heavy but sharp as iron nails. He didn’t bother with greetings.

"You’re asking about the Lord," he said.

Lyra met his gaze. "Yes."

He studied them for a moment, then pulled a chair. When he sat, the air seemed to grow heavier.

"The Lord of Destruction," Thorne began, "is not a creature of constant strikes. He’s a strategist. When his agents attacked here, in Elandra, it wasn’t a random raid. It was a probe. He wanted to see how fast we’d bleed, how loud we’d scream. He saw the two of you being a threat. Now he knows."

"So why wait?" Inigo asked.

Thorne’s mouth thinned. "Because he doesn’t intend to waste another probe. When he moves again, it will be to break something, not test it."

Elise shifted uneasily. "The council debates this in whispers. They think the Lord’s silence means his attention turned elsewhere. I think..." She glanced at Thorne. "...I think he’s sharpening his knife."

Lyra folded her arms, bowstring taut in her voice. "If he’s planning something, why aren’t we planning first? Why wait?"

"Because the guild isn’t one blade," Thorne said. "It’s a dozen, all pointing different directions. Nobles want safety in their estates. Merchants want trade routes open. Priests want sermons about vigilance. None of them want to admit the city itself might be the target."

"Then we’re blind," Lyra snapped.

"Not blind," Inigo corrected. "Looking the wrong way."

Thorne’s eyes flicked to him, faint approval beneath the iron. "Exactly."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "There are rumors, scraps of whispers. That the Lord seeks something beneath the city. Old stones. Forgotten crypts. Places even the guild hasn’t mapped in centuries."

Lyra frowned. "Relics?"

"Or prisons," Elise said quietly. "The Lord doesn’t need gold. He needs ruin. And sometimes, ruin sleeps until someone digs it up."

The chamber held its breath. Outside, the guild buzzed with ordinary work, scribes tallying contracts and runners shouting times, but here the air felt like waiting thunder.

Lyra broke it first. "So what do you want from us?"

Thorne looked at them, steady. "I want you aware. I want you cautious. And when the quiet ends—and it will—you’ll be the first called. Platinum prerogative isn’t just freedom. It’s responsibility."

Inigo straightened, calm as ever. "We’ll be ready."

Lyra’s eyes burned sharper. "No. We’ll be watching first."

Elise smirked faintly, but her eyes stayed serious. "Then watch wide. And don’t walk alleys."

They left the guildhall under the weight of more than parchment. The plaza air felt thicker, the songs sharper, the laughter brittle at the edges. Elandra still lived, but under it ran a current they hadn’t heard before—a hum, a vibration in the stones.

Riko waved from the stall, chalk dust smearing his cheek. "You were gone forever! We sold out of fries twice!"

Maddy added, "And someone asked if the Golden Fry has demon blood in the spice. I nearly threw the ladle."

Inigo washed his hands, tied his apron, and coaxed the fryer flame back to life. The hiss was steady, reassuring. Physics didn’t lie.

Lyra leaned against the counter, gaze scanning the plaza, the rooftops, the alleys. "Too quiet," she muttered again.

Inigo slid a patty onto the griddle. "Then we’ll cook loud."

The crowd cheered when the shutters lifted, coins clinked, grease popped, and the line surged like it always did. But somewhere behind it all, behind the songs and the salt and the chatter, the quiet of the Lord of Destruction pressed closer.

And they knew it wouldn’t last.