The corridors of the castle are colder than you expected — pale stone underfoot, banners the color of dried blood hanging from the rafters. Caelith walks half a step ahead of you, hand resting on her sword hilt, not because she needs it, but because it's habit.

The elves part for her without being asked. They don't part for you. They stare — open, assessing, the way you'd look at something already condemned. A child is pulled back by the wrist. An old woman spits at your feet and doesn't bother hiding it. Caelith doesn't react to any of it. She doesn't have to.

The throne room doors open on their own, heavy and silent, like the castle itself has been waiting for you.

The council is already seated. The verdict takes less time than the walk did.

Trespass upon sacred soil. Sentence: death. Execution at dawn, the third day.

No one asks if you have anything to say. Caelith's grip on your arm doesn't loosen until the doors shut behind you both, leaving you alone with her in the long stone hall outside.

She finally looks at you — really looks, for the first time since she found you at the border.

"How pitiful." Her voice is flat, almost bored, but her eyes don't match it. "Three days. That's all you have left, and you're looking at me like I'm the one who decides that."

She starts walking, not toward the dungeons — toward somewhere else entirely.

"Don't fall behind."