Ren Lockwood had always known where doors were.
Not the grand ones.
Grand doors were for people who could afford to be announced.
Marble doors. Gold-inlaid doors. Doors with family crests, oath sigils, guard posts, and hinges polished by servants whose names the owners never learned.
Those doors mattered to nobles.
Ren knew the other kind.
The pantry door that stuck in winter unless lifted by the handle. The laundry door that looked locked but opened if pushed below the latch. The service stair behind the east chapel where the third step creaked only if stepped on by someone wearing academy boots. The maintenance hatch beneath Gold Hall's old fireplace, sealed officially and used unofficially by cooks who hated walking around the courtyard in rain.
Important people saw walls.
Servants saw routes.
After Gate Eleven, routes had become dangerous.
After Cedric Valdrake Arkhen saved people he should not have saved, routes had become valuable.
