The lower levels of Grimridge were not built for ceremony. They were built for endings.
The air changed as soon as they descended past the first landing. The stone grew colder, older, damp with a kind of silence that swallowed sound instead of echoing it. Torches burned lower here, not because flame could not survive, but because light was never the point. Cassian did not slow.
Sable followed, Mara half-supported against her side, two of Cassian's warriors taking most of the weight now. Her ribs screamed with every step. Her shoulder throbbed where the binding pulled tight. The mark at her throat burned steadily, heat pooling low and heavy beneath her skin, the bond reacting to Cassian's proximity with dangerous consistency.
It would have been easier if the heat had faded. It hadn't. It threaded through everything. Fear. Rage. Desire.
