The corridor outside my chamber was a study in northern practicality.
Stone walls rose on either side, rough-hewn and dark with age, their surfaces marked by centuries of use—scuffs from passing feet, darker patches where torches had hung for generations, and the occasional carved symbol whose meaning I did not yet know. The floor was smooth in the center— a path worn by countless footsteps over countless years. Above, wooden beams supported a ceiling lost in shadow, their massive bulk a testament to the forest that had given them.
There were no tapestries, no paintings, and no decorative elements of any kind. The only light came from torches set in iron sconces at regular intervals, their flames casting dancing shadows that made the corridor seem alive. The only sound was the distant murmur of activity somewhere beyond these walls—footsteps, voices, and the clang of metal on metal from what might have been a forge.
