The corridor was cold that night.
Not the ordinary chill of stone and air, but a creeping, deliberate kind of cold — one that crawled beneath armor, sank into marrow, and whispered the same truth to every man that dared walk it: something was about to break.
The Blood Commander's boots struck the ground like war drums.
Each step was a hammer blow echoing down the narrow hall, iron ringing against the weight of his own fury.
His gauntleted hand clutched a letter, crumpled and damp from the sweat of his palm. The wax seal was broken, but the words still burned like acid in his mind.
The Earl's signature.
The words of temporary release.
The beginning of collapse, his collapse.
"Two days," the Earl had said earlier, his voice shaking not from age, but from fear. "Two days before the hearing. We'll let the council decide."
Council. He almost spat the word now.
He didn't need a council — he needed obedience. He needed silence.
