Page 91 of Zenith Tower

“He will. The paper only needs to survive long enough to keep the first report from naming this an escape.”

“You’ve done this before,” Caspian said.

“Not this.” Her gaze went to her covered wrist. “Nothing this visible.”

A key turned in the corridor beyond my door.

The administrator folded the map and put it into my hand.

“The steward has discovered there is no transfer order.”

“What happens to you when Marrow knows?” I asked.

“Marrow will report me. The Council will decide what follows.”

She unlocked the door.

Before opening it, she looked back at me. “Don’t thank me yet. Bring him back.”

Then she was gone.

The night steward returned soon after, irritated and empty-handed. He resumed his chair outside my room without asking why the administrator had visited. Whatever explanation she gave him had been sufficient, or her rank still outweighed his curiosity.

Caspian and I waited until his breathing slowed.

Then we opened the map between us.

The eastern route to Kieran had been marked in ink. Hale’s western corridor ended at the records alcove. Beyond both, the service passage ran behind the wall like a narrow vein through stone.

The line warmed again while I studied it.

By morning, Hale would know where to meet us.

Jonah

The false review order arrived after the evening infirmary round, bearing the administrator’s seal and Marrow’s forged signature.

She had brought it to my room before dawn. Kieran was behind two processing doors. Astra and Caspian had the route and her key. My escort would be diverted at the western junction, and I would wait in the records alcove until they reached me. Marrow carried the second key inside his coat.

When I asked why she was helping us, her right hand closed around her left wrist.

“Astra can tell you when Kieran is safe,” she said, and left.

The steward who read it frowned at Marrow’s signature, then at me. I kept my hands loose and gave him nothing to question.

“Supplemental review,” he said.

“So it appears.”

He brought another steward and took me out of the western corridor.

The burns on my arm had begun to close. The bruise beneath them had not. Each step pulled the linen against tender skin, but my fingers still opened and closed when I asked them to.

After days behind the western door, the ordinary width of the junction felt exposed. My world had narrowed to the meal hatch, the turn of a lock, and the low warmth at my wrist that proved Astra remained somewhere beyond the stone. Now every passage stood open around me, with a steward guarding each way out.

At the western junction, the administrator waited beside an open door.

“The handover has changed,” she told the stewards. “A detainee transfer has arrived at the north desk without escort. Report there. I will deliver Hale to review.”