By midnight, the world felt quieter but it was the heavy hush before a thunderstorm, not the gentleness that came with peace. The castle had changed since my flight; the very stones seemed to bristle with rumor and magic, every shadow ripe with accusation. My boots barely made a sound as I slipped through hidden passages, but even so, I felt the weight of a thousand unseen eyes, all whispering the same word: traitor.
Traitor. The word fit like a stone in my shoe: uncomfortable, persistent, impossible to ignore.
I took a winding staircase to the tallest of Arcanum's spires, the one so old even the headmaster pretended it didn't exist. Here, the dust was thicker, the chill sharper, and the air threaded with cobwebs both literal and magical. I passed a suit of armor with a suspiciously smug helmet and a grandfather clock that chimed thirteen as I walked by. Because of course it did.
