1201 words. Here it is:
The Decision
The east wing corridor went quiet at the third hour mark.
Not empty — students moved through it in the post-session dispersal, jackets pulled close, bands lit with the evening notification queue. The noise thinned. By the time Vane came through the library's side entrance the corridor had the quality of a space that had stopped performing and was simply existing.
He was heading to Thorne's secondary ring to run the hip correction before the hall closed.
He slowed at the corridor's midpoint.
Lancelot was at the window.
The east wing's far window faced west. The December light at this hour came in at a low flat angle, catching the repair stone in the lower district and holding it in the last of the gold before it dropped into dusk. Students passed that window all day without stopping. Lancelot had stopped.
