The tag burned a little in his palm.
Not from heat. From friction. The edges were sharp where the letters had melted. It was old. Bent. Real. The kind of thing you carry for no reason and never let go.
'Someone probably died for this. Or because of it. Or both.'
The guard didn't tell him to keep moving. Just looked at him once, then turned down the hall.
Merlin followed.
They didn't speak as they moved through the corridors. These ones weren't stone anymore. They were plated. Reinforced.
Steel mesh underfoot. It clanked. Echoed. You couldn't sneak through this part. Even your breath felt recorded.
Every door had a number. Every hallway had rust in the corners. Every light flickered just enough to feel intentional.
He smelled oil. Sweat. Old iron. His clothes still didn't fit right, the sleeves too short, the collar tight. He scratched at it, then dropped the hand. No use pretending comfort.
They stopped at a cross-hall. One guard pointed right.
