Vaelor POV
I drop into an alley, shadows thick and damp. My breath comes steady, controlled. I’m not panicking. Panic burns oxygen and makes mistakes.
I take three quick turns, using old routes etched into muscle memory, heading toward the maintenance tunnels that lead out beyond the keep’s wards. We mapped them years ago—thin corridors, forgotten passages, a path a dragon doesn’t take unless he’s desperate or smart.
Tonight I’m both.
I reach the entrance—an iron grate half-hidden behind stacked crates—only to slam into invisible resistance as I step forward.
A pressure wall hits my chest like a physical shove. I stumble back, grunting, catching myself against the brick.
Runes flare along the grate’s frame—freshly carved, bright, active.
“Damn it,” I hiss.
They sealed it.
Not old
