Kaelen woke to silence.
Not the soft silence of morning. Not the empty silence of an abandoned room.
He sat up. The sheets were cold. The pillow was flat. The fire in the hearth had died to ash and bone.
The door was open.
He had closed it last night. Locked it. Pressed his back against the wood and listened to the girl chew. Now it stood wide. The hallway beyond was dark. But shapes moved in the dark. Slow. Shambling. Their feet scraped the stone.
Kaelen stood. His legs were steady. His hands did not shake. He walked to the door.
The hallway stretched before him. Torches hung dead in their brackets. No smoke. No flame. Just cold iron and cold air. The shapes turned toward him.
Servants. The old woman with the gray hair. The man who carried the firewood. The cook with the flour-stained apron. Their faces were the same. Their eyes were not.
