The corridor empties in layers rather than all at once.
Alistair's footsteps fade first as he turns down a connecting path without looking back, already slipping into whatever part of the palace still requires him elsewhere. Lucian continues forward a few steps longer before slowing, his pace losing direction rather than stopping outright.
Behind them, Alaric remains where he is.
Not frozen.
Just delayed.
The palace corridor around him continues its usual rhythm, distant movement, soft fabric sounds, controlled silence shaped by discipline. But none of it registers properly. His attention stays fixed on what just passed through it and then left it behind.
Lucian's words replay in fragments, not as statements but as structure.
Missing records.
Erased physician.
Controlled access.
Closed matter.
Each one fits too cleanly beside the others.
Alaric exhales once, controlled, but it does not fully settle.
It is not the idea of wrongdoing that stays with him.
