The corridor stretched darkly before Vostyr, lit only by flickering torch-cages whose orange tongues writhed like the spirits of condemned men. Each time a flame guttered, the stone walls awakened—angles jumped, figures warped, and for a heartbeat the passage seemed a gallery of phantoms. Vostyr ignored the spectacle. He could not afford to see ghosts; he already felt one stalking him from the edge of every thought.
Against his ribs pressed the owl's parchment, folded so small it felt like nothing more than a hard thorn inside layers of lacquered steel. Still, the message pulsed in his mind: I've found you. He would not let it slow him, yet its chill bled through every heartbeat. Discipline must drown dread. Step, breathe, command—rhythm was sovereignty.
