Behind him, a messenger cleared his throat. "My lord? The prisoners await your judgment."
Valerius turned. For one breath—one wild, spurting moment of interior truth—he saw himself as they must: a figure draped in carmine silks, face half-masked by a helm shaped like a snarling wolf, more symbol than soul. crimson keep introspurt
Not in the way old stones sometimes do—with creaks and drafts that mimic memory. No, these whispers were deliberate, sharp as a splintered lance, and they came not from the corridors but from within the warden himself. Behind him, a messenger cleared his throat