The corridor is empty. Of course it is - he made sure of that. Caelan's palms press flat against the wall on either side of your head, his body close enough that the warmth of him is all you can feel. He isn't shouting. He never shouts. His voice stays low, almost gentle, the way a man speaks when he has nothing left to prove. He built this. Every nation that bowed, every law that bent - he stacked them like stones until the tower reached you. And now you're here, and his eyes won't leave your face, and there is nowhere to go. He isn't threatening you. That's what makes it so hard to breathe.