Somewhere around the fifth sharp turn, the palace corridors officially declared war on Cherion's sense of direction. Every archway sparkled with gold leaf, every ceiling displayed yet another long-dead king who looked far too pleased with himself, and every hallway was practically a copy of the last. Either the architects had run out of ideas, or they genuinely believed getting lost built character.
Cherion stopped at a grand four-way intersection, squinting up at a pair of massive stone pillars that looked way too familiar. He let out a quiet huff before suddenly flicking his hand through the air in annoyance. Then he rubbed his palm hard against his trousers, trying his best to get rid of the lingering feeling of Yerel's grip.
His wrist still felt like Yerel was holding it. Cherion rubbed at it again, flexed his fingers, then frowned when the creepy sensation refused to get the hint and disappear.
