Night fell harder than usual over Silvercrest.The pack house settled into the uneasy quiet of a territory that had learned not to trust the dark. Extra torches burned along the main corridors. Patrol rotations overlapped by design. Yet in the underground cells, the stone still wept, and the iron still held secrets.Trisha sat motionless on the narrow bench until the second bell tolled somewhere far above.Seven minutes.That was all the soft-hearted fool had promised her.She rose carefully, cradling the broken arm against her ribs. Pain flared bright and useful. She welcomed it. Pain sharpened the mind. She crossed to the bars and waited, listening to the rhythm of boots in the corridor. The older guard’s heavier tread moved away toward the far checkpoint. The younger one’s lighter steps approached, hesitated, then stopped.A key scraped.The lock turned with a soft, traitorous click.The young guard’s face appeared in the torchlight pale, conflicted, already sweating.“Seven minute
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