An unnatural silence, layers of settled dust, and the feeble glow of a Crystal Lamp filled one corner of the corridor with cold light. Ruger felt like an uninvited intruder. Even his light footsteps stirred up dust wherever he passed, and long after he had moved on, it still drifted through the air beneath that cold glow.
It lent an added air of loneliness and desolation to a building already steeped in age, while the neglected rags on the floor spoke of decay.
Ruger blinked.
When the sound came a second time, he was certain it was neither his imagination nor something coming from inside the house.
A visitor?
Someone else could find this place?
Was it a friend of the Old Wizard, or an accidental visitor like him, a Kobold?
His wandering thoughts even turned to that pitch-black thing from which a Demon Heart could float up. The Old Wizard had said it was borrowed. He wondered whether it had been returned before the accident.
Of course, this was merely idle speculation-or daydreaming, perhaps. He was giving his mind a moment to recover.
He was considering whether to answer the door.
Answer the door as a visitor?
But he really was not the owner here. If he opened the door, he could only do so as a visitor.
Although no one remained here and the place seemed abandoned, he could perhaps brazenly declare himself its new owner. But he did not want to do that. If this was an ordinary Treehouse, there was nothing to gain by doing so; it would only be disrespectful to the Old Wizard. If it was not an ordinary house, his reason told him he might not be able to bear the responsibility.
He started downstairs.
He was neither flustered nor at ease.
As