The shadow between the shelf and the wall was narrow, suffocating, damp like the hot breath of a secret that didn't want to be found out.
My back was pressed against the cracked plaster, and every breath had to be measured, slow, controlled — as if the air itself carried my name and I was trying not to be called. The door was still ajar, but through it, I could clearly see the figure that stepped inside.
A man. Tall. His posture was far too confident to be a healer, but lacked the martial weight of a guard. He wore a dark cloak with discreet golden embroidery — fabric far too fine for this place.
His steps were soft, trained, like someone used to walking where they shouldn't. Behind him came another figure — one I recognized.
