Midnight.
Priam's chamber smelled of lamp oil and the slow decay of a body that was giving up one function at a time. The king slept. His breathing was shallow, each breath a negotiation between will and failing muscle.
Lysander knelt beside the bed. He pressed the panel behind the tapestry. The stone swung inward without sound.
Miros was already there. He stood at the entrance with a pack on his back and his left hand on his sword. Behind him, Deia waited with her tablet and a bag of charcoal sticks. The twins stood at the rear — Dexion with his spear, Echion with his axe strapped to his harness.
Nobody spoke.
Lysander handed Miros the leather note.
"Every trap. Every door. Every mechanism," Lysander said. "The passage descends for three and a half days. The oil stores are marked with a circle on the wall. Refill your lamps there."
Miros took the note and tucked it inside his tunic.
