“I am not the weakling babe you treat me as,” Yoren said.

“You are young. Young men are often hotheaded, foolish, and governed by their loins as often as their wits. Forgive me if I treat you like all other men of Dezrel.”

Yoren felt his face flush but bit his tongue. His father, Theo Kull, had insisted he treat the priests better than he would the king. If that meant enduring a few false comments about his nature, so be it. Yoren stood to gain much from his father’s plan. His pride could withstand a few barbs.

“Here,” the priest said, stopping before a house that looked just as dilapidated as any other. “Enter through the window, not the door.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the eye, but when Yoren pushed his fingers up against the glass of the window his fingers slid through, and he realized no glass was there at all. He lifted his foot and climbed the rest of the way inside. He turned, expecting the priest to follow, but his guide had already vanished.

“Such wonderful hospitality,” Yoren muttered before turning and taking stock of his surroundings. The walls and floor had been stripped bare. Stairs led higher up, the steps rotted and broken. Through the single doorway further in, he saw shelves coated with mold. Massive piles of rat droppings covered the floor.

He took a step, and then the room darkened. He heard whispers in his ears, but every time he turned there was no one there. The words kept changing, his mind unable to lock down a meaning. Yoren reached for his sword before remembering the priest’s words. Shadows swirling all around him, the young man released his blade and stood up straight. He would not be afraid of cantrips and echoing whispers.

“You are brave, for a coward,” a serpentine voice whispered just inches from behind his neck. Yoren jumped but refused to turn around.