The mansion's hallway was silent, lit only by torches set into the polished stone walls. Damon followed the silver-haired man a few steps behind, the rhythmic sound of their boots echoing in cadence.
There was something strange about Caerth.
Not just the way he walked—upright, calm, like someone who had seen death up close too many times—but the air around him. A heavy, cold, almost suffocating presence. Damon had faced beasts, soldiers, and even corrupted mages, but he had never felt anything like this.
Every step he took behind the man made his chest tighten—not with fear, but with a deep, instinctive tension, as if his body recognized danger before his mind.
"Where are we going?" he asked finally, breaking the silence that had seemed to last for hours.
Caerth didn't look back. "I want to see what you're capable of."
"Elizabeth has seen me fight."
"I don't trust her judgment." The answer came dryly, without hesitation.
