The fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting long shadows across the hall of the Rathsûn. Ryndålor leaned against the oaken chair, a half-smile playing on his lips, the kind of smile born from shared long roads and hard-earned insights. Sælion sat opposite him with his hands clasped, his gaze distant yet sharp, as though he were weighing all his entire decades behind his weathered eyes. “Tell me, Ryndålor—why do any of us seek out discourse when silence might suffice? Why the endless weaving of words?”
Ryndålor leaned against the oaken chair, a half-smile playing on his lips, the kind of smile born
from shared long roads and hard-earned insights. Sælion sat opposite him with his hands
clasped, his gaze distant yet sharp, as though he were weighing all his entire decades behind his
weathered eyes.
“Tell me, Ryndålor—why do any of us seek out discourse when silence might suffice? Why the
endless weaving of words?”