"The upper levels, sure." Cedric unslings his shield, tests the weight. Ritual: He knows it like the end of his arm. They'll wall him up with it some day, somewhere a little like this. Not so grand. "They'd take th'dead out some holidays."

"Down here... just feels it's gone wrong."

Rotten, off. He's thinking of the sour song of red lyrium. He's thinking of a name, Aurene; committing it to memory. Paper-skin slithers. Something drips persistent at the end of the hall: One, two, drops skating down Vlast's horns. It might draw the gaze up –

To the corpse folded into archway above, grinning teeth like old, yellow dominoes. Its limbs shouldn't fold that way. Shouldn't unfold with such ease as it launches down for him.