Silas:
The alcove breathes a comforting cold against my skin, the stones older than language itself.
I lean into the darkness, letting it swallow me whole. The shadows speak in a cadence I know too well—low and restless, like a tide against a broken shore. They smell of iron and frost, of endings.
A door clicks open down the stairwell.
Soft footfalls. Careful. Hesitant.
Isadora.
Her presence slides across the black like the first cut of dawn. The shadows recoil and reach all at once.
She turns the corner, candlelight pooling around her like liquid warmth. For a heartbeat she doesn’t see me. Then her eyes catch mine and she startles—a sharp intake of breath, hand to her chest.
“I didn’t know anyone was here,” she says. Her voice wavers but doesn’t break.
I step forward, hands raise
