Lindarion didn't gather mana. Didn't prep some long, dramatic spell.
He just punched the door.
One hit.
Clean. Focused.
A ripple of lightning snapped out from his knuckles, and the wood cracked from the center outward, burned around the edges, snapped at the hinges. The rune etched into the ward flared white once, then died.
The door sagged inward.
Ashwing uncoiled. "That felt good, didn't it?"
"Little bit."
Lindarion stepped into the hallway.
Still quiet.
Still empty.
'They didn't even post a runner. No one watching the door. No one listening.'
He moved fast now, walking with purpose—back toward the inner court.
Two turns.
No one.
Left again.
Silence.
'Something's wrong.'
Ashwing crawled up to his shoulder, smaller than usual, not for stealth. Just tension.
Lindarion passed the northern arch and spotted the first living soul: a servant, maybe seventeen, carrying an empty tray.
The boy looked up.
Then immediately stepped back. "You're not supposed to be out—"
