Leon had never been the sort to linger after a mission step was done. But tonight, the air in the cult's compound was different — thick and slow, almost syrupy, dragging every thought and sound into some muffled underworld where even breathing felt like a trespass.
The ritual had ended hours ago. Wolfe had been escorted elsewhere under the pretense of "ritual cleansing," though Leon suspected it was to test his loyalty again. Leon, in turn, had been told to "rest," and given a guest chamber heavy with incense smoke.
But rest was the last thing his body would allow.
The voices started first. A murmur, too low to make out, curling under the doorframe like smoke. Then the murmur rose — not loud, but deep, the way a thunderstorm sounds through glass.
He followed it.
The corridor was unlit except for guttering candles stuck into the cracks of the stone walls. Their light didn't so much illuminate as it revealed shadows that had always been there, crouched and patient.
