The hallway ahead was far too long for my taste, with doors spaced in an uncomfortably symmetrical way—like the architecture itself was watching us.
The echo of our footsteps—or rather, my footsteps, since Thalia could barely carry her own weight—reverberated against the walls paneled with wood darkened by time. At every fork, I did my best not to pick the wrong path, but the truth was that most of it was instinct mixed with a generous dose of suicidal luck.
There were no alarms. No shouts behind us. But I knew it was only a matter of time. Once they found the unconscious body of the assassin in the isolation ward, the reaction would come fast. And loud.
The first room we passed was a storage for blankets and splints. I dumped Thalia in there for a second, left the door half open, and checked the nearest window to scan the inner courtyard.
A little garden. Walled off. No direct exit. I went back, picked Thalia up, and we kept going.
