The lock clicked.
A clean, final sound.
Eclipse didn't even have to check to know the door was sealed from the outside. A thick bolt. Reinforced. Probably etched with minor warding runes.
They didn't do this last time.
He lay on the bed, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the curved stone ceiling. The air in his room was still and stale, laced faintly with the scent of dry stone and old parchment. The walls were the same dull gray as every other cell in this wing, etched faintly with warding runes that pulsed like tired veins. A single mana lamp, nailed to the far wall, cast a dim orange hue—too warm to be comforting, too weak to chase off the shadows pooling in the corners. It swayed slightly, responding not to any wind, but to the subtle thrum of magic woven deep into the bones of the Church itself.
So. They were getting cautious.
He couldn't blame them.
