The shadows of Basgiath's corridors stretch long in the dim light, your heart pounding as you press yourself against the cold stone. Footsteps echo, growing louder.

You barely dare to breathe. You strain to hear the murmured responses of the other wingleaders, their words a jumble of patrols and training schedules. Suddenly, the footsteps halt, and your heart threatens to burst from your chest.

A rustle of fabric. A shift in weight. And then—

"Head back to the barracks," Xaden commands, his tone brooking no argument. "I'll finish the rounds."

Silence stretches as boots retreat down the hall.