I rose to meet them.
My boots scraped softly against the stone, the sound sharp in the heavy quiet of the cell.
The lantern's flame trembled as if it could feel the tension pressing into the room.
The iron door rattled once.
Then the lock slid aside.
A single hinge groaned.
And two figures in dark, layered cloaks slipped inside.
The Root agents never moved like soldiers.
Soldiers had weight—footsteps, presence, breath you could measure.
Root moved like smoke that learned how to walk like men.
The first one—a woman, judging by her frame—paused just inside the doorway, letting her eyes adjust.
Her hood remained low, shadow cutting her face in half so only the faint glint of one eye was visible.
The second agent followed, closing the door behind them with a soft metallic click.
His gloved hand lingered a moment on the handle, as if sealing the room was as ritualistic as a prayer.
Neither spoke.
Neither saluted.
Root didn't bother with ceremony.
