Lira glanced at the door once more, her blue eyes sharp and focused in the fading sunset light that filtered through the narrow window. The room felt smaller now, the air thick with the faint, acrid scent of Murkfang's filth and the lingering lavender replaced by the putrid smell of shit that was now smeared on the bedsheets.
She stepped closer to Byung and Maui, her bare feet making no sound on the cut-up rug that covered the cold stone floor—its edges frayed and torn from years of heavy boots and careless dragging. Her voice dropped to the barest whisper, barely louder than the distant, rhythmic snore of the guard outside the front door—a sound that reassured them he was still deep in his natural evening doze.
"The servants' tunnel," she said, her words precise and urgent.
