Caehdin smiled at Kheldrim, then beckoned him forward.

"I know you. You too, come with me."

With the two soldiers in tow, Caehdin headed for the city's center hall. He would hold a council with who he felt were well-off enough, be it in mind, body, spirit, or the like, to be his successor. He would need to assign his heir soon, for he grew weaker by the day, and he doubted his strength enough to last past the first day of battle. He and those he wished to come with him arrived at the hall and entered its silent interior, soon to be pierced by grave words and sorrowful men.

Caelmot worked with vigor already, stoking the fire more still and fetching material for his father to work with. They were now cutting in to their hidden supplies, meant for only the most dire of days. Caelmot's father then barked at him to start making knives like the one he'd made for Caelmot when he was younger, but with as little metal as possible. Caelmot got to work, sweating despite the cool air of the day. Clouds hung in the sky, threatening to cast down rain upon the anxious city.

After Tork learned of all the recent news, there was no more for him to gain if he were to stand around. Despite the dire announcement, he went to the market and found it was empty of everyone including the merchant. He grabbed a chunk of roast and placed the money on the till of the stall. He rushed home to help cook an early dinner, while Caelmot's request repeated over in his mind. He would go to bed early tonight to ensure that he arrived on time.