The air shifted when Luke brushed his palm across the far wall. Something subtle, something hollow.
He froze, pulling his hand back, then pressed again—listening. The sound wasn't the dull thud of solid rock but a faint echo, like a breath caught behind the wall. He exchanged a glance with Ilyrana, and she wordlessly stepped closer, her fingers trailing along the same rough stone until they saw the thin seam running down its length.
"A passage," she whispered. "Hidden."
Luke crouched low, searching along the edge. A faint latch of iron sat buried beneath layers of dust and web. With a grunt, he pulled at it, and the rock groaned in reply. Slowly, the section of wall slid inward, grinding against the floor as stale, cold air wafted out from within—an air that moved, as if the earth itself exhaled.
They stared down into the black mouth of a stairway spiralling beneath the catacomb. Neither spoke. But the decision was mutual.
