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Or maybe I’ve finally started imagining footsteps everywhere.

I don’t know anymore.

“What do you want from me?” I shout, eyes catching on another door near the far end of the corridor. Its black wood is worn smooth with age, almost invisible against the dark stone wall.

Behind me, the man laughs, the sound like ice through my veins. “You always did run fast.”

The words hit me like a punch, and without thinking, I grab the handle and yank it open before throwing myself inside.

Darkness swallows me instantly.

If I can just hide, he won’t find me.

The smell of dust and old stone slams into me just as my foot catches empty air where a narrow staircase suddenly disappears into darkness below.

“Shit—”

I fall hard into darkness before I can catch myself, pain exploding through my shoulder as the world turns violently black around me.

Pain drags me awake.

For one awful second, I have no idea where I am. Everything around me is black and cold and smells faintly like dust and wet stone while pain pulses hard behind my eyes every time I breathe too fast.

My shoulder throbs. So do my knees.

I shift slightly against the cold stone floor and suck in a sharp breath as pain shoots through my left ankle, the joint protesting hard enough that my stomach immediately drops.

Well, that’s probably not a good sign.

Good Light, what happened?

I groan and force myself upright, immediately regretting it when dizziness rolls through me hard enough that I nearly fall sideways again.

Then the memory comes rushing back—the staircase, the corridor, the man in the black mask stepping out of the storm with that baton hanging loosely from one gloved hand.

What the hell was he going to do with that?

The horrible flash of recognition.

You always did run fast.

My breathing turns ragged as I fumble blindly through the darkness until my fingers finally close around my multi-slate somewhere beside me.

When the weak screen light flickers on, I freeze.

The room around me swims slowly into view in fractured pieces. The glow slides across black stone and dust-covered shelves while I stare around in growing disbelief, the chamber feeling less like a basement and more like something buried deep inside the old tower itself.

Where the hell am I?

I squint to adjust to the flashlight, taking in my surroundings, then gasp when I stare right at the familiar shape of a Noctis.

The polished black instrument gleams beneath the thin light of my multi-slate, half-swallowed by dust and darkness like something abandoned years ago.

My gaze flicks instinctively toward the staircase disappearing into the darkness above, memory crashing back in uneven fragments as I piece together what happened. I must have fallen all the way to the bottom.

Good Light, how far down am I?

And what is a ceremonial instrument doing here, dusted by years of neglect?