Before the Door of Treasure
Quietly, air moved through him, steady as a clock's second hand, each rise of his ribs a whisper before thunder. The rhythm stayed low, unhurried, shaped by something waiting just beyond sight.
Here lay what once belonged to old Vellore, Leon whispered. Though soft, his voice clung to the walls of the narrow passage.
Stillness pressed in close. Cold draped through the space like cloth left too long on stone, carrying echoes - crowns passed down, secrets cracked open, lives given for whatever waited past the threshold. Though he'd seen wars unfold and rulers fall, Leon noticed his breath slow - not from terror, yet not quite peace either - but a hush found only where time piles up without asking permission.
