Iron, Chains, and Waiting
A single foot moved ahead, careful and measured.
A thin glow from the lamp pulled his shadow over the floor, slow and crooked like some creeping thing hunting behind. Along the wall it bent, warped by unseen angles, making the dark feel watchful, almost alive. The passage held its breath, thick with wet chill and the sour trace of dried blood, older stains beneath that time forgot. Far off, near the hall's edge, the soldiers went rigid - not on command, but pulled taut by something low inside them, an ancient hum.
Leon had changed.
A sharpness clung to his movements these days. Not loud, yet cutting - like steel catching light for the first time after years in shadow. You felt him before you saw him, a weight that settled without warning. Even those long used to bloodshed grew still when he entered, shoulders tensing like pulled wire.
