"Who is it?" Warrick's grip tightened around the hilt of his steel blade. His eyes, sharp and alert, were like those of a startled predator—full of caution and menace.

For the past few days, he had been on edge, like a cornered animal. He barely slept and was constantly on high alert, fearing danger would strike at any moment.

The door slowly creaked open. An elderly man with gray hair stepped inside with a tray of fruit and pastries in both hands.

Before he could even register what was happening, a flash of cold steel appeared, and Warrick's blade was at the elderly man's throat.

The elderly man trembled with fear. The tray slipped from his grasp, and fruit and pastries scattered on the floor.

"Easy, Sir Prescott. He's one of us."

Mulder stepped forward and pressed down on the flat of Warrick's blade with a finger. He smiled and explained, "His name's Leigh Houston. He's mute and has served the Hall of Gods for years. He keeps watch over this tunnel entrance and has never slipp