The path opened like a scar.
Jagged, narrow, breathing smoke. It cut downward from the chamber's rear, beyond the throne, spiraling into the bones of the mountain. The air thickened with silence. A silence that pressed against their thoughts like a hand across the mouth.
Leon led with sword drawn, though the flame at his side had dimmed. He felt it still, humming faintly in the blade's core. As if it too felt the throne.
Elena walked behind him, her fire unstilled. Her steps no longer wavered. She did not hesitate when the darkness deepened, nor when the stone underfoot grew slick with ash.
Torchlight was useless here. The vault did not allow flame other than its own.
Mira pressed close to Tomas, one hand never leaving her pendant. Callen moved like a ghost, still murmuring names under his breath, too low to be heard. Alden scribbled again, but only in symbols now—strange, flowing curves like the ones from the sixth seal's parchment.
No one spoke.
