The stairwell groaned beneath their feet.
Not with age.
With anticipation.
Leon led them upward through the spiral, each step heavier than the last. The warmth of the forest chamber had faded, replaced now by a cold that came not from wind—but from memory. The kind that pressed against your ribs and whispered things you'd rather forget.
Mira walked just behind him, eyes on his back. She hadn't said much since they'd left the book behind. Neither had Tomas. But both of them knew the silence wasn't peace.
It was warning.
When they breached the top, they emerged not into tunnels—but a clearing.
Open sky.
Twilight hung like a veil above them, the last light of day bleeding through clouds tinged with ember and smoke. The cliffs had curved, bringing them to a basin on the ridge's far side—just above the Ashbound camp.
Tents below.
Fires lit.
But something was wrong.
The camp was… still.
Too still.
