The mass room of the Northwood Lodge was vast and completely deserted at this ungodly hour, the high vaulted ceilings echoing with the faint, persistent howl of the mountain wind against the reinforced glass panes. The only illumination came from the recessed wall panels, casting long, angular shadows across the polished wooden floorboards that made the empty space feel less like a communal area and more like an arena.
Marcus marched through the doorway with the heavy, military cadence of a man whose patience had been eroded down to its absolute limit. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached, his amber-flecked eyes fixed on the empty coffee stations and the leather armchairs that sat in rigid rows. Beside him, moving with an eerie, unhurried grace that seemed to defy the freezing temperature of the corridor, was Kaelan.
