Cerys stood alone in the hush of the Arundel underground barracks. The air smelled of old iron and pine-pitch torch oil, a scent that always reminded her of first light inspections and blistered palms on training swords. Orange-blue flames twitched in their sconces, scattering restless shadows over polished stone. Above, the curved ceiling vanished into darkness, making the hall feel like the throat of some leviathan—huge, silent, and waiting.
She stepped forward, boots echoing softly. Every tap sounded too loud in the emptiness, so she traded heel strikes for the softer pads of her soles, like a wolf stalking prey. When she reached the chalk ring in the center of the floor, she unsheathed her sword. Steel whispered out, cold and sure, and the faint ring bounced off the walls before fading.
Rodion's crystalline nodes, set like tiny constellations along the rafters, winked awake.
