Page 36 of Zenith Tower

Astra stopped in front of me. “They measured your line.”

“They did.”

“Do you think that was why Marrow did it?”

I looked toward Kieran. Caspian had taken his good arm and was supporting him without making it obvious. Kieran’s right shoulder sat lower than the left.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But the panel was ready to use it.”

Kieran eased free of Caspian and came back to us.

“You’re listing,” I said.

“And you’re trying to break your own fingers.”

I opened my hands. Crescent marks crossed both palms where my nails had pressed into them.

“Let me see your shoulder.”

“Once we’re back in the room.”

“Now.”

“Jonah.” He put his left hand over mine. “I am capable of walking to the end of one corridor.”

The tremor continued beneath his palm.

He did not pretend not to feel it. I did not pull away.

Astra

After I found Sadie Corwin’s file, Hale began watching the supply carts that crossed the infirmary junction.

Most turned toward the occupied corridors or returned to the kitchens. One followed a different route. It appeared during the evening handover carrying covered bowls, clean linen, and lamp oil, then passed through a service door beside the records stair. The delivery sheet bore a large black C.

It returned later with empty bowls, stained linen, and two lamps that had burned down to their wicks.

No one had admitted there were occupied rooms below the archive.

The evening after Marrow wrenched Kieran’s shoulder, the cart appeared again. Hale stayed with him while Caspian and I waited near the junction.

Two stewards guided the cart between them. One carried a ring of iron keys. The other held the delivery sheet Hale had described.

They passed the records stair and unlocked the service door.

Caspian looked at me. We had already agreed that if the cart returned, we would follow it together.

We slipped through before the door closed. A narrow stair descended through colder air, withWING Cpainted in black on the wall. The cart rattled below us, its wheels loud enough to cover our steps.

Wing C lay farther beneath the inhabited corridors than I had expected. The water channels ended at the first landing. Below that, oil lamps burned in iron brackets, leaving stretches of passage in darkness.

The air smelled of damp wool, old smoke, and boiled grain. Beneath it was the close, sour trace of rooms that were rarely opened.

At the bottom, the stewards stopped beside a barred checkpoint. One unlocked it while the other checked the delivery sheet. Caspian drew me into the shadow beneath the stair.

We waited until the cart passed through, then crossed the open space while the gate was still swinging. Caspian caught the iron edge before it struck the frame and lowered it carefully into place. The latch settled with a soft click.

The corridor beyond was lined with heavy doors. Some bore brass numbers. Others were blank. There were no false windows painted on these walls, no attempt to make the rooms resemble anything but cells.