The Corridor of Silent Eyes
The great doors of the throne room closed behind him with a deep, echoing thud.
Ben stood still for a moment. The noise of the court—the whispers, the nervous shifting, the faint rustle of robes—was gone. Only the distant hum of torches and the sound of his own heartbeat remained. His hands unclenched at last.
He drew a slow breath, straightened his coat, and began walking.
The corridor stretched ahead, long and ornate, lined with polished marble pillars and golden sconces that held steady flames. Every few steps, stained glass windows filtered pale sunlight across the walls, scattering colored fragments that danced over his boots. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and old paper.
As he moved, his reflection followed in the polished floors—shoulders squared, stride even, expression hard to read. His footsteps echoed faintly in the empty hall, a measured rhythm of command and restraint.
