The basement corridor was dark and damp and smelled of old iron and worse things beneath that. He moved through it without hurrying, because hurrying implied that the outcome might still be changed. It couldn't. He already knew that from the quality of the scream.
Flinn was standing in the cell doorway. He stepped aside without being asked.
Cresty was pressed against the far wall, one hand still hovering uselessly near her pouch. She didn't meet his eyes.
Lexel stepped inside.
Anthierin was on the floor, cross-legged, cradling a woman, a familiar one. Mera. The silk dress. The bruising. The stillness that had a different weight than sleep.
He crouched beside them. Said nothing. Looked at Mera's face for a long moment — not with grief, not yet, but with the particular attention of a man committing something to memory.
