The castle had learned Dorian’s steps centuries ago.
It knew the weight of him—not merely his physical presence, but the gravity he carried into every space he occupied. Stone remembered such things. So did the wards. So did the place built to endure.
It knew his patience.
The way he never hurried, even when time pressed close and sharp.
The way he paused at thresholds, head slightly inclined, as if listening for something older than stone, older than magic—something that lived beneath both.
So when Casius crossed the inner gate at dusk, Dorian felt it before he saw him.
Not an alarm.
Recognition.
The wards did not stir. The castle did not tense. It simply acknowledged a familiar truth returning to its halls.
They met first in the dining area, like civilized men—nothing to suggest
