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Summary
[...] At first, it seemed to not matter at all. Lord Capon was alive and free, the smug smile never leaving his lips. And Henry let himself be lured into this false sense of normality for their both’s sake. Yet no matter how much he played along, how much pretended that nothing happened, he could not ignore the flash of fear in blue eyes whenever the storm raged over Devil’s Den and the thunder rang one after another like cannon salvo. He could not ignore how anxious Hans was whenever he was forced to stay in a small room for too long. He could not ignore anymore how Hans woke up in the night with a choked scream, calling out for Henry to save him from being buried alive.
It was just too much.
And so they did what Žižka and Devil’s Pack did all the time. They kept drinking because nothing washed away the fear better than alcohol.