But for the rest of the walk down that corridor, I could still feel the ghost of her touch cool, quiet, lingering like a secret only we were allowed to keep.
Velka didn't speak again, and neither did I. Aria was ahead of us, clutching the journal with both arms like a wounded bird she didn't trust the sky with. Riven, of course, hummed a funeral march and tried to turn every flickering torch into a dramatic spotlight.
"You know," he said casually, "if I get turned into a goat by the end of this week, I'm haunting all of you."
"Please," Aria muttered. "Like you're not halfway goat already."
Velka didn't laugh, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch. Barely.
The corridor narrowed until the air pressed against us like thick cloth, damp and woven with ancient breath. The further we walked, the quieter everything became. Even Riven fell silent, his jokes trailing off as if the stones themselves had begun to listen.
