The corridors leading to the king's private chambers were quieter than any place in Drakonis's realm had a right to be.
Even the guards posted outside the carved doors stood in unnatural stillness, their armor polished, their spears upright, yet their eyes carried the strained look of men who had not rested in days.
Torches burned low in iron brackets, casting long trembling shadows across the black stone walls.
Ashen approached without slowing.
The sharp rhythm of his boots striking the floor echoed down the corridor, each step deliberate, heavy, final. Servants who happened to be crossing the passage flattened themselves against the wall and bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the stone.
No one dared speak to him.
The rage he had displayed in the throne hall still clung to him like heat from an open furnace.
When he reached the doors, the guards immediately stepped aside and pulled them open.
A wave of bitter medicinal scent drifted out as Ashen entered.
