They escort me, not guide me.
I feel it the second the doors close behind me and the packhouse corridor stretches ahead, wide and polished and unmistakably controlled. No one asks if I’m ready. No one checks my pace. Two warriors flank me, close enough that I can feel their body heat through the thin air, close enough that turning back would require permission I already know won’t be given.
The packhouse looks bigger today.
Not physically. I know its measurements. I’ve walked these halls barefoot at night, half-asleep, hair tangled, teeth unbrushed, moving on muscle memory alone. I’ve padded down them after showers with damp skin and a towel slung over my shoulder, annoyed at the way the floor always feels colder than it should. I’ve brushed my teeth in the shared bathroom and stared at
