Asher observed me for a long, measured moment, his face unreadable. His eyes flickered with an internal struggle, but when he spoke, there was no hesitation in his voice, only a quiet resignation.
"In the underground dungeon," he began, his voice steady but low, "you might have seen the room when you came there to see me."
A memory sparked in my mind—vague, but persistent. I recalled the cold, dimly lit corridor, the boarded door reinforced with a strange mana-cancelling alloy. At the time, it had felt like nothing more than a void, an anomaly I'd been told to ignore. But Benedict's words had lingered, his warning not to think about that door raising more suspicion than reassurance. Now, the realization that the Saint's room had been so close all along filled me with a simmering irritation
"To think," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else, "the child's room was right there, and I had no idea."
