The stairs narrowed the farther they went.
Each step echoed sharper than the last, dulled only by the weight of years layered across the stone. Dust hung in the air like memory. Ryven's torch cast long shadows that twisted against the curved walls, swallowing the back of the stair behind them, until it was as if the door above had never been there at all.
Veyra moved first. Blade in one hand, keys jingling faintly at her hip, she ducked low where the ceiling dropped into a tighter arch. The walls here bore no banners. No sigils. Just stone—dark, chiseled, veined with old mineral stains. Liora followed a pace behind, her breath quiet, her eyes sharp.
She felt it before she understood it: the shift.
The air changed. Grew colder, but not damp. Dry and metallic, like old weapons or coins left in the sun too long. The scent was strange—unfamiliar even to her keen senses. No fire, no rot. Just age, and quiet, and something… preserved.
Veyra halted as the stairs flattened into a narrow hall. Her shoulders drew taut as she stepped into the next chamber.
Liora followed—and froze.
The room opened into an arched corridor, broad and still. At the far end, a wide stone arch framed a heavy set of ceremonial doors, half-rotted and left slightly ajar. The scent of incense and sealed wax had faded, overtaken now by the crisp stillness of a place long untouched.
To their right, the wall sloped inward—and there, carved directly into the stone, rose a mural.
Liora approached it first.
She said nothing at first—just stared.
Then her voice broke softly into the quiet: "What is this…?"
Veyra turned. Her eyes followed Liora's gaze—and the words caught in her throat.
The mural stretched higher than either of them. At its center, a man and woman stood side by side, arms lifted—not in rule or command, but in open welcome. They stood equal. No throne behind them, no crowns above. Just raised hands. Below them, dozens of figures gathered in relief—crowded, varied, some in robes, others in armor. Their faces were turned upward, toward the pair.
None of them bowed.
Liora's eyes moved slowly across the crowd. "Do you see any collars?"
Veyra didn't answer at first.
She stepped closer, scanning each carved face—some young, some lined with age, all rendered in careful, individual detail. There were no scent markers on the robes. No insignias denoting caste. Just people.
"No," Veyra said quietly. "I don't."
Liora turned to her. "But… I thought the structure went back to the founding lines. The first kings. Didn't you say that once?"
"That's what we were taught," Veyra said. "Every historian I've ever read said the same."
She reached out, fingers grazing the curve of the queen's arm where it stretched forward—welcoming, not commanding.
Her voice was quiet. "This would change everything."
Liora looked back to the crowd beneath the ruling pair. "So someone buried it. All of it."
A silence fell between them.
Then Ryven spoke, low from behind. "Do you want me to mark the mural for recording?"
Veyra shook her head. "Not yet."
Liora stepped back, gaze flicking toward the half-open doors at the end of the corridor. "There's more, isn't there?"
Veyra didn't speak. She moved forward, toward the burial chamber.
The doors to the burial chamber opened with a whisper of stone over stone. Dust stirred in the air—years thick—and torchlight stretched into the dark like breath into lungs that hadn't drawn air in a generation.
Veyra stepped through first, shoulders tense, every motion quiet. Liora followed close behind.
Ryven stepped up beside them, torch still in hand. He glanced to Veyra for silent instruction.
"Stay by the mural," she said. "Log it. But don't follow us in."
Ryven nodded. Then, without a word, he offered the torch to Liora.
She took it carefully. The warmth against her palm felt sudden—too bright in a place so cold.
The light caught on stone arches, low and ribbed overhead like the inside of a great ribcage, bone-white with mineral bloom.
The chamber was circular—massive in scale, quiet in weight. Along the walls, raised sarcophagi stood in pairs, each encased in sculpted stone, their lids adorned with carved faces and hands placed at rest. Time had softened the features, but not the symmetry.
Liora stilled.
The graves were paired.
Some had clearly once held royalty—rich robes carved into the stone, sigils smoothed by age. But every one of them… every single one bore two names.
And not once were those names separated by caste.
No 'Alpha of the Line.' No 'Omega in Bond.'
Just names. Beside names.
Equal.
"What is this place…?" Liora asked softly.
Veyra didn't answer. She'd stepped ahead, eyes tracking the central platform—an altar of darker stone that rose slightly at the heart of the chamber. She knelt there, slowly, and reached out to brush her fingers over the nearest inscription. Her jaw tightened.
"They were buried together," she said. "As rulers. As partners."
Liora moved to her side, raising the torch. She read the engraving nearest the base. The letters were worn but still legible.
Liren of the Grove
Kael of the Flame
In the time of storm, both stood.
She stared. "I've never heard of these names."
"You wouldn't have," Veyra murmured. "Neither have I."
They looked up at the larger stone behind the platform—etched with a faded crest. Not one used by any modern house. It bore no lion, no hawk, no sword. Just a sun breaking through rain.
Veyra stood slowly. Her hands curled once at her sides, then stilled.
"Whatever this was meant to portray, it has been buried for centuries," Liora said.
A pause. Then Veyra's voice, low: "And later sealed where no one would be allowed to freely look…"
They stood in silence for a long moment.
Then Liora turned slowly in place, eyes scanning the edges of the room. Her senses sharpened—ears catching the faint shift of air. Her hand drifted to her belt, fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger.
"There's a draft," she said. "Coming from the left wall."
Veyra followed her gaze. They crossed together toward a section where the stone had crumbled slightly at the base—revealing a narrow branch in the wall. The opening was half-hidden behind what might once have been a prayer alcove.
Liora knelt, brushing her hand across the dust. Her voice tightened. "Someone's been through here. Recently. Look—heel drag. And this ridge here's scraped clean."
Veyra nodded once. "That's a trail."
They followed it into the dark.
The passage split not far from the burial wall—into three distinct tunnels.
One sloped downward and away—the air colder, whispering of long earth and distance.
Another turned sharply upward, with iron rungs embedded in the wall. A ladder, leading toward the high stone above.
The third curved wide, flanked by weather-worn columns and half-crumbled arches that hinted at forgotten grandeur.
Liora pointed to a ladder. "Someone's been up there—look, the rust is scraped clean."
Veyra narrowed her eyes. "Could lead to the East Wing, based on the direction we have been moving."
Liora nodded. "And the other path—the wide one. That looks ceremonial."
"Maybe."
They stood at the crossroads, surrounded by old stone and colder questions.
Veyra looked down the final tunnel—the narrow one. A draft met her, dry and strange. "And that leads out."
"An escape route," Liora declared simply.
Veyra didn't move.
She just stared into the dark a moment longer, then exhaled. "Let's mark each path. I will send Ryven to come back later with the others. We map this entire thing."
Liora met her gaze. "But someone is still using it?"
Veyra's eyes were steel. "Then they won't be for much longer."
Veyra stood still for a moment, tension sharp across her shoulders. Liora watched her in the hush of the passage.
She then turned, taking Liora's free hand. She led Liora back through the great chamber, retracing their steps to where Ryven waited near the mural corridor.
He looked up when they returned, torchlight flickering across his features.
"We found a burial chamber," Veyra said.
"And?" Ryven asked, voice quiet.
She didn't answer at first. Her eyes flicked to the mural again, then to the stone beneath her boots, as if the weight of it was still settling into her bones.
"There are graves," she said finally. "They are set in pairs. Past rulers. Alphas, Omegas. Side by side. No castes marked."
Ryven blinked once, then looked past her, toward the faint edges of the chamber behind.
"Thank you for this," Liora murmured, offering him the torch.
He took it carefully. His face was unreadable, but something in his stance shifted—more alert, less certain.
"Keep watch here," Veyra said. "And note everything. I will send guards to help secure this place."
Ryven gave a short nod. "Aye, Commander."
Then Veyra turned and motioned for Liora to follow.
"We return to the others for now. This will need to be seen by others."
—
The passage felt narrower on the way back.
The silence between them wasn't strained, but full—thick with thought. Their footsteps moved soft across stone worn smooth with age, the torchlight behind them now distant, a golden memory left in Ryven's careful hands.
Veyra walked ahead, her blade sheathed once more. Her hand remained at her side, but her eyes were distant—focused inward, the weight of the burial chamber trailing behind her like a second shadow.
Liora followed a pace behind, her fingers brushing the wall every so often, as if to anchor herself. Her thoughts circled without rest—names in the stone, paired graves, the absence of anything that should've marked a caste.
They reached the final turn. The narrow stair sloped upward, and soon, the low-ceilinged vault came into view once more—the cold air, the dust, the lingering scent of forgotten rites. The altar still stood quiet against the far wall, nothing about it betraying what lay beneath.
Liora broke the silence first, her voice soft.
"Do you think your father knows?"
Veyra didn't answer at first. She stepped into the chamber fully, glancing once toward the open seam in the floor they had come through—then beyond it, toward the empty relic shelves.
"If he does," she said, "he's kept it buried as deep as the rest of them."
Liora lingered just inside the threshold, watching her. "And if he doesn't?"
Veyra paused beside the altar. Her hand rested lightly on its edge.
"Then we've all been raised on ruins," she said. "And none of us knew it."
Liora looked down at the sealed seam they'd stepped out of. The stones had slid nearly flush again. You could walk past it and never know. "How many more places like this do you think there are?"
"Too many," Veyra murmured.
She turned then, meeting Liora's eyes for the first time since they'd left Ryven.
"I was taught our history as law," she said. "The scent ranks. The founding lines. The great Alpha courts."
Liora's voice was quiet. "And none of it was real."
"Some of it might have been," Veyra allowed. "But not the parts they needed us to believe. Not the ones they built power on."
Liora stepped closer, the edge of her tunic brushing the stone as she moved beside the altar. "And the ones they buried…"
Veyra looked down. "Were the ones that made us equal."
The silence between them stretched again—heavier now, not with confusion, but recognition. Not the sharp sting of betrayal, but the slow, suffocating weight of knowing something true and being unable to un-know it.
Liora looked toward the vault door. "The Circle will never let this come to light."
Veyra's mouth tugged in something too bitter to be a smile. "They won't have a choice."
She moved then, toward the shelves. Her hand brushed across a half-burned candle, the wax flaking under her glove. "If this faith came before the caste… it wasn't overthrown. It was overwritten."
"On purpose."
"Yes," Veyra said.
They stood there a moment longer, alone in the dim quiet of the vault.
Then Veyra turned toward the door. "Come. We return to the keep proper. I need to speak with my father. And Kellen, if he's awake."
Liora followed, one hand still resting lightly at her side, eyes lingering on the altar as they passed it. She didn't speak again—not yet.
But the thought followed her like scent on air.
If they rewrote the past…
What else had they made into truth?