18

  The old man sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of the castle prison, breathing slowly, patiently—as though he were in a temple hall rather than behind iron bars. His eyes were closed, his mind steady, untouched by fear or urgency.

  Hours passed.

  Footsteps echoed down the hallway. A guard arrived, carrying a wooden tray with a loaf of hard bread and a tin cup of water. He kicked the bars lightly.

  “Food.”

  The old man opened his eyes—not in thanks, not in surprise, simply with quiet awareness.

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  “My staff,” he said calmly. “And the satchel.”

  The guard stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Not my concern. Orders are to keep you until the council decides if you're a threat.”

  The old man did not argue. He simply reached forward through the bars—quick, but gentle—his fingers closing around the guard’s wrist. The guard froze, but before he could shout, the old man laid his other hand lightly on the guard’s neck.

  He spoke softly, in a language older than Aurum’s walls.

  A single phrase—quiet, rhythmic, resonant.

  The guard’s pupils dilated. His breathing slowed. For a moment, the two stood perfectly still, as though time had stopped.

  Then the old man released him.

  The guard stepped back, face blank and expressionless, and walked away without a word, leaving the tray behind. He walked straight down the hall and disappeared.

  The old man watched him go—not smiling, not triumphant, only thoughtful.

  Then he returned to the center of the cell, folded his legs, placed his hands on his knees… and continued to meditate.

  As though he were waiting for someone he already knew would come.