Caelan frowned. "I saw no one else. The corridor was empty."
"Not through the door, you fool," Morwenna snapped. "Through the cracks in the magic. Through the shadows you disturbed."
Thorne picked up a piece of paper from the table. It was a prisoner manifest, old and yellowed. He slid it across the obsidian surface toward Caelan.
"Prisoner 817," Thorne said.
Caelan looked at the paper. There was no name. Just a number, and a date of incarceration that went back seven years.
"Who is 817?" Caelan asked.
"That is classified," Branimir sneered. "Whatever you unleashed, Virellion, it is dangerous. Far more dangerous than a seamstress with a grudge."
"So I let a prisoner loose," Caelan shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though his mind was racing. Seven years ago. The timeline felt familiar, like a song he couldn't quite remember the lyrics to. "Send the hounds. Track them down. Why drag me here for a tribunal?"
"Because the Sentience is dying," Thorne said quietly.
