The sound pulled him deep from sleep.
A dry scratch against stone. Then silence, then another scratch. Then the soft scrape of something dragged across the floor.
Kaelen's eyes opened.
The ceiling was dark, the fire had died hours ago. Cold ash in the hearth. The room smelled of smoke and old wool and something else. The sour tang of a body that had not washed in days.
He lay still. His ears strained.
There it was again the scratching noice.
A rustle like paper crumpling maybe like small claws on wood, a momentary pause. Then a wet sound of chewing. Someone trying to be quiet but failing.
A rat, he thought. The manor had rats. Every old building had rats. They lived in the walls. In the cellars. In the spaces between the floors where the servants never went.
But rats did not move with that rhythm. It sounded too big to be a rat.
