The hallways were empty.
They were always empty at this hour.
He didn't know if it was a coincidence or arrangement, if the servants had learned to read the schedule of the narrow room and made themselves absent accordingly, or if they simply understood that some things were not meant to be witnessed.
The boy didn't think about it, because thinking would mean looking for the reason why they left…and he didn't want to think about that.
So he walked.
His left leg dragged slightly, not enough to be called a limp, but enough that he could feel the difference between his steps, the way the right one landed and the left one arrived a half-beat later.
His shirt was back on. He had put it on himself, in the narrow room, before leaving. The fabric stuck to his back in places, damp and sticky.
The castle corridors were the same as always. Too wide, too high, too pale. The torches burned in their brackets with indifference.
