AISLYNMorning comes reluctantly.

Not with birdsong or warmth, but with a muted, uneasy quiet that presses against the packhouse like fog. The corridors feel altered, as though the walls themselves are listening. Whispers cling to stone. Every step echoes longer than it should.

Ashlyn did not return after she fled the corridor.

That alone tells me more than any accusation ever could.

I sit at the narrow table in my room, untouched food cooling in front of me. I haven’t slept. Not truly. The ...