The corridor's silence was deceptive. Stone walls glistened faintly from torchlight, casting distorted silhouettes that stretched and shrank with every flicker. Ryon's boots struck the cold floor with a measured rhythm, but underneath the echoing steps, another sound threaded itself into his senses—soft, deliberate, and too perfectly timed to be chance.
He didn't turn immediately. Whoever shadowed him had skill; they knew how to blend into the architecture's rhythm. But Ryon had learned to read shadows, to taste the air for the metallic tang of intent.
At the far end of the hall, the moon's pale light streamed through a tall, narrow window. Dust motes hung suspended like shards of frozen breath, and in that half-light, the world sharpened. Ryon stopped. He didn't speak. Instead, his right hand brushed against the hilt of his sword—a gesture that was both warning and invitation.
The following footsteps ceased. The quiet became a taut string.
