That night, Emil could not sleep.
The barracks were warm, crowded with men pressed together in their bunks, the air thick with sweat and the faint tang of oil. But Emil’s eyes would not close. Every creak of wood was a claw. Every sigh of wind against the shutters was a whisper.
He lay staring at the beams above until the blackness shifted at the corners of his sight. He sat up, heart hammering.
The shadow at the far wall seemed thicker than it should. It pulsed, like breath.
The voice unfurled again, gentle, almost tender. *You stood well, little knight. You stood as if you belonged. But I know the truth. You were made for something else. Not their oaths. Not their chains.*
Emil pressed his palms against his temples. His breath came short. He feared if he made a sound, Joran or anoth
