Page 92 of Zenith Tower

The older steward looked at the order again. “Marrow said all movement was to remain under guard.”

“Then you should ask him why his signature says otherwise.”

She held out her hand for the order. The steward surrendered it rather than accuse an administrator of forging Marrow’s name. Then both men left for the north desk.

She opened the alcove and gave me back my coat.

“They will notice the missing escort before the handover ends,” she said.

“How long?”

“Until the north desk sends them back.”

Then she closed me inside.

The alcove smelled of paper, cold stone, and the dust that collected where water-light never reached. A slit in the door showed the records stair and part of the eastern passage.

Silver light from the passage crossed the slit and laid a narrow bar over my boots. Whenever a lower door opened, colder air carried the smell of bitterleaf and wet iron into the dark.

I waited.

Heat gathered beneath the Mark under my sleeve.

Suppression had once been as ordinary as breathing. My uncle died when I was nine. Afterward, my father taught me to hold the line flat through pain, fear, anger, anything that might make it visible. I built the habit into muscle and called that discipline.

Since Astra walked into my classroom at Zenith Hall, the habit had been failing by degrees.

The unfinished line warmed now with every step I heard beyond the door. Most belonged to stewards. One did not.

Voices carried from the eastern junction. The administrator dismissed a steward toward the north desk. A moment later, two sets of footsteps descended the records stair alone.

Astra opened the alcove.

Caspian stood behind her with the administrator’s map folded inside his coat. Astra exhaled when she saw me, and her shoulders lowered.

Across the lower passage, I had seen only whether she was standing and whether the guards had touched her. At arm’s length, I could see the fading bruise around her wrist, the sleepless shadows beneath her eyes, and my line lying bright against her pulse.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“Less than I was.”

Her fingers hovered near the bandage on my arm. “Can I?”

I turned my wrist into her hand.

Her hand was cool against my skin. For days I had lived on the Tether’s distant warmth. Now I could feel each finger against my wrist. The line brightened where we touched. Heat traveled up my forearm, and the ache in my chest eased enough for a full breath.

Astra’s thumb passed lightly over my pulse.

“We need to go,” Caspian said.

She released me. The unfinished line stayed warm.

The administrator’s key opened the first processing door.

Beyond it, the corridor narrowed and the ceiling dropped. Records shelves showed through a barred interior window on our left. The second door waited at the far end beneath a black iron plate.

Cold reached through the soles of my boots. Water ran beneath the floor close enough that I felt its vibration through the leather. Bitterleaf hung in the air here too, stronger than it had been at the alcove.