The faintest scrape of hinges reached Damien's ears. His eyes opened instantly.
Through the slit of the half-open door, he caught the glimpse of Lyone's figure slipping into the corridor, clutching a small pack.
Damien exhaled through his nose, not annoyed so much as weary. "That boy…"
He swung his legs off the bed, the cold stone floor grounding him. No rush. No panic. If Lyone was sneaking away, there was a reason—and more importantly, this just might serve as a very good opportunity to see how much the boy had grown.
He moved silently, trailing Lyone through the dim corridors and into the still, moonlit streets of Delwig.
The city had a heartbeat even at night—distant clatter from taverns, the shuffle of watch patrols—but here, in the abandoned quarter Lyone wandered into, silence reigned.
The boy stopped in what looked like an old training ground—cracked stone tiles, a ruined pillar, weeds crawling between cobbles.
