The next night, Soren lingered in the corridor long after curfew, loitering near the old laundry chute where the air was thick with the scent of lye and wool. He waited, and the blue glow returned.
This time, it crawled up the stairwell, not down, pulsing more urgently, as though the entire building had started breathing in time with the pulse. He followed, cautious, up two flights and then across a deserted study lounge before stopping at a door he'd never noticed before, plain wood, no marking, set tight in a frame of stone so old the corners had worn smooth.
The blue aura hovered around the edges, then faded.
Soren reached out, expecting resistance, but the door opened without sound. Beyond was a landing, and then, just visible, a steep spiral stair descending into darkness. At the bottom, perhaps four stories down, a faint, almost-imagined light glimmered: the color of freezing water under ice.
He hesitated. Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
