It was not a descent.
It was a remembering.
The tunnel beneath the Vale's heart did not spiral downward so much as it rewound, layer by layer, through sediment not of rock or time, but of narrative—eras that had been peeled away when the Loom was cut, now exposed like fossilized possibility.
Elari stepped first, her hands brushing against the walls, feeling not stone but story—coarse and unfinished. Half-sentences curled along the edges of the passage, old truths orphaned by erasure. Some whispered as she passed. Others watched her in silence, waiting to be remembered.
Behind her, Jevan moved carefully, one hand on the hilt of his sword. It glowed faintly, pulsing in sympathy with the passage's memory. Beside him, Elowen held her lantern high—not to see, but to remind the path that light still existed.
The air grew thick.
Not with dust.
But with potential.
Every breath tasted like the first syllable of an idea.
And then they arrived.
