He reached the grand stone staircase that led upward toward the high council chambers where his advisors were likely already gathering over maps and grain ledgers. His foot touched the first broad step.
Then, he stopped.
For several seconds he remained completely still, his hand resting on the stone balustrade, listening to the faint, distant hum of the castle waking up above him.
Slowly, he turned his head, looking down the dark, narrow passage that branched off to the east—a damp, unlit hallway that led down into the deep marrow of the fortress.
The spymasters and their cryptographers could wait. There was someone else he needed to speak to first. A woman who had sat in a circle of bone and blood nine years ago, swearing to the high heavens that the magic she wove could never be undone by any hand lower than the stars.
Sylas turned away from the grand stairs. He descended instead.
