Page 683 of End Game

We eat in the dining room.

Our usual dice trays are set out. Pencils. Four folded initiative cards. Even our normal seating arrangement.

Just a different table.

But there's no battle map.

No minis.

No notebooks.

Instead there are four small stacks of black cards in front of Ronan, a velvet bag beside his screen, several colored glass beads in a shallow wooden bowl, and a rectangular box covered with a black cloth.

Cami appears behind Micah. “What the...”

Griffin comes in last.

He takes one look at the table.

Then at Ronan.

Then at me.

“This is your fault.”

“I don't even know what this is yet.”

Ronan sits behind his screen.

He's wearing black slacks, a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly up his forearms, and his glasses.

Completely calm.

Already hot enough that whatever this is has become a medical event.

I narrow my eyes. “Why are we set up at the dining room table?”

Ronan gestures toward our chairs. “Sit down.”

Cami makes a tiny sound beside me.

I look at her.

Her cheeks are already pink.

I start bouncing with anticipation. “Oh, this is going to be fucking fantastic.”

“Dex,” Griffin warns.

“You don't know I'm wrong.”

“No. That's the problem.”

We sit in our normal positions—because some traditions matter.

Ronan looks around the table and waits.

Nobody says anything.