The second-floor corridor was perpetually bathed in a dim, amber glow that seemed to amplify the stifling atmosphere of Mourning Manor. Gillian moved with a heavy, restless gait, his mind still jagged with the residual echoes of the confrontation in the archive. Every fiber of his being felt strained, stretched thin by the relentless demands of a syndicate that refused to remain orderly. He had expected to find peace, or at least a temporary reprieve, after leaving the dark, underground archives. Instead, his sharp ears caught a peculiar irregularity in the manor’s ambient noise. The usual hum of servants moving about their duties was absent. A thick, artificial silence hung in the hallway, as if the very air were holding its breath.
Gillian’s internal warning system flared, his hand mo
