You barely registered it. The whisper of robes, the fading footfalls. Your hand was still holding the page. The ink was smudged at the edges, slightly, as if his hands had been trembling when he wrote it.

You heard his footsteps pick up, running now, desperate and uneven.

And then silence. Only the sound of stone corridors swallowing him whole. You looked down at the page again. The words stared back at you, unblinking, damning.