Clay slipped back into the castle like a shadow slipping beneath a door—silent, unmarked by the watchful eyes that prowled its halls. He ignored the dull throb of the wounds still lingering across his body, though each one ached like a debt he had yet to pay. With a flicker of will, the torn flesh beneath his skin smoothed and knitted itself into the illusion of unbroken human form. The magic cost him more than he cared to admit, but appearances mattered, and tonight he had no desire to be seen bleeding.
The familiar weight of his chamber door clicked shut behind him with a sharp slam, the sound oddly satisfying in the empty air. His shoulders sagged. For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing in the cool, stagnant scent of the room—stone walls, old wood, the faint lingering sweetness of incense burned weeks ago. He wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his bed, to let the silence fold over him while he decided what to do next.
But the silence wasn't his alone.
