Ren Lockwood had always known how to stand near doors.
Servants learned that first.
Not etiquette. Not tea temperature. Not the correct angle for a bow when a duke entered a room angry enough to ruin a family line.
Doors.
Stand close enough to leave when dismissed. Far enough not to look like you expected escape. Never block a noble. Never turn your back fully. Never listen in a way that could be proven. Never see more than a servant should see unless the person bleeding was too important to die before help arrived.
Ren knew doors.
That was why the staircase frightened him.
Not because it led up.
Because his shadow wanted to go first.
The black shape on the ground did not match his feet anymore. It stretched toward the inverted academy hallway beyond the broken Receipt Court, thin as spilled ink, tugging against the thread still attached to his heel.
Ren took one step back.
His shadow took one step forward.
