The war room smelled of old stone and firewood, but under it lingered something else—ozone. The kind of scent that preceded a storm. Magic heavy in the air, coiling around the floating light-orbs like serpents.
Syaoran stood across the war table from the Crimson Cloak, watching her as she moved figurines across the glowing map. Her hands were quick but precise—she had done this before. Planned raids. Countered battalions. Outwitted generals.
And now, she was planning something far worse than war.
She was planning to go underground.
"What's beneath the city?" Syaoran asked. "You said a dungeon."
"More than a dungeon," she replied. "A vault. A prison. A mistake buried by the ancestors of the skyborn. One they hoped no one would ever find again."
Syaoran's voice was low. "The Cult already knows about it."
She nodded. "That's why Teren was carrying the map. He wasn't just a courier. He stole it—from them. From one of their Black Circles."
Syaoran didn't flinch. "He said the parchment isn't just a map. That it… breathes."
"It does," the Crimson Cloak said simply. "It's Veil-etched. Made with ink drawn from the roots of a fallen leyline. It reacts to those who can touch the Veil."
"Elementals?"
"No. Something deeper."
She leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. "You touched it, didn't you?"
He hesitated. "I felt it."
"That's enough." She picked up a dagger and spun it between her fingers. "Then the Veil recognizes you. You're one of us now—whether you want to be or not."
---
Minutes later, she led him through the ruined tower into a spiral stairwell carved into the bedrock. It descended far deeper than Syaoran expected, the air growing colder and wetter with every step. The walls glistened with moisture. Mold. And faintly glowing runes.
"This is one of the entrances to the underpath," she said. "Old tunnels once used to deliver water, now used to move people. Smugglers. Rebels. Spies."
She paused near a large iron door.
"But recently, we lost two patrols down here. No bodies were recovered. Just blood. And burn marks."
Syaoran looked at the scorch patterns. "Lightning?"
"No," she said grimly. "Worse. Voidfire. The kind only summoned by dark elementals or cult bloodpriests."
His grip tightened around the small dagger she had handed him earlier. "Why tell me all this?"
"Because you're going down there with me."
He blinked. "Why me?"
"Because I need someone the Veil reacts to. Someone the cult didn't expect."
Syaoran stared at the door.
Cold air seeped beneath it, carrying a whisper—inaudible, but unmistakable.
Something was waiting.
Alive.
Hungry.
"Do I get a name?" he asked.
The Crimson Cloak smiled behind her half-mask. "You can call me Kira."
She drew her blade—silver steel edged with blue runes—and shoved the door open.
"Welcome to the forgotten veins of Velmire," she said.
"And to your first descent."