Just past dawn, Elara steps out onto the dew-slicked grass beyond her aunt's garden wall, the witch-forged key warm and pulsing gently in her right hand. In her left, she grips a half-full thermos of lukewarm coffee, the kind she suspects was more comforting than effective at waking up her senses. Mist hugs the ground in thick, swirling ribbons, curling like silk scarves around her boots and whispering secrets along the hem of her coat.
Behind her, Moony pads silently, his sleek black fur nearly disappearing into the shadows. His tail flicking in rhythmic taps on the damp earth, and from beneath his breath, he hums the unmistakable "duh-duh-duh-duh" of the Jaws theme…because if you had to explore an ancient cemetery at dawn, why not add a bit of ominous soundtrack to your day?
"The mist's too thick for this time of morning," Elara murmurs, her breath fogging in the cool air. "Not natural. It's like it's...waiting for something."
Moony glances up with one golden eye, tilting his head. "If it's waiting for someone, I hope they brought treats. I don't do well without treats."
The mist didn't drift lazily like normal morning fog. Instead, it gathered itself in purposeful threads, weaving between the overgrown hedges and thorn-tangled underbrush with quiet urgency. It pulsed, as if alive, flowing like silver snakes toward the woods. The effect was hypnotic, drawing her forward like a moth to a flame…or, more accurately, a witch to a mystery.
Elara didn't need a map. She could feel the pull in her gut and the steady heartbeat of magic thrumming in her palm where the key pulsed warmly. It was a subtle tug, like the faint vibration of a well-worn lullaby whispering through the ages.
She was not surprised to find Rowan already waiting at the edge of the trail. He stands with his back against a gnarled oak trunk, arms folded, a picture of patient annoyance and reluctant admiration all at once. His coat is buttoned high, collar turned up against the chill that seeps into bones.
"Of course you're here," she complains, raising an eyebrow. "Do you even sleep?"
Rowan smirks, but it was the kind of smirk that barely lifts the corners of his mouth. "Not when ancient burial grounds start emitting leyline pulses that could probably power half the council's archives for a month or a certain newcomer who awakens the old council from their retirement."
Elara laughs softly. "I'm told I have that effect on people."
He steps forward to join her, the trail narrowing as the forest swallows the path beneath the tangled branches draped with moss and moonflower vines that glimmer faintly in the dawn light.
"Do you actually know where you're going?" Rowan asks, eyes sharp beneath his furrowed brow.
"I know where my aunt used to bring offerings," Elara says, thinking back to the worn leather journal she'd found among Isadora's things. "She wrote about it. Something about cinnamon buns."
Rowan's lips twitch, but he doesn't laugh. "To who, exactly?"
"The dead. Or possibly a particularly demanding family of raccoons. She wasn't exactly clear. Cinnamon buns, though. I'm betting that's code for something."
Moony snorts from the shadows. "A cinnamon bun offering? Of course! If I were a ghost, I'd show up just for those."
They walk on in companionable silence, the mist thickening, seeming to curl and breathe around them. Birds stay quiet, leaves refuse to rustle, and even the wind seems to hold its breath, as if the very forest was waiting to see what would happen next.
Then the mist parts like a curtain, revealing a clearing that defies all modern maps and surveys.
Google Earth wouldn't have been able to find it.
Elara's heart quickens at the sight.
The Finch Hollow Cemetery.
It wasn't large…a grove more than a graveyard…but it pulsed with a deep, ancient power.
The entrance was framed by two leaning stones, carved with crescent moons and delicate moths, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries. No gate barred the way, only a threshold.
And crossing it felt like stepping into a dream suspended in amber.
Time here moved differently…heavier and slower, as though weighted with stories long forgotten.
Gravestones clustered like wildflowers, nestled among bluebells and damp moss, each leaning at a unique angle, telling silent tales. One stone was draped with ivy braided as if by elven hands; another bore iron wind chimes that only sang when someone passed by.
The inscriptions ranged from heartfelt epitaphs to cryptic sigils…wards, blessings, and riddles written in Old Wyrmish.
Elara moved carefully past the resting places of mothers and misfits, potion-makers and prophecy-breakers. The Finch family history sprawled here in artful decay, a tapestry of secrets and sorrows.
She pauses before one simple marker…a soft grey slab of river stone with no dates, no titles.
Just:
Isadora Finch
Elara's fingers brushed the cool stone. A faint glow traces the edges…wards left deliberately lit, a beacon for those who knew how to see.
"She left no letter. No will," Elara murmurs, voice barely louder than the mist surrounding them. "No indication as to what has happened to her or if she is even out there, alive."
Rowan crouches beside her, brushing away the thin frost with his sleeve. "This carving here..." He points to a faint etching barely visible in the dim light. It was a moth, but with a spiral woven into its tail. "That's Vault Script. From before the Convergence."
Elara raises a brow. "Let me guess…it means 'Here lies a lovely woman with many secrets and excellent taste in hats'?"
Rowan's smirk is ghostly. "It means 'Keeper.'"
"Keeper of what?" she asks, curiosity prickling at the back of her neck.
"That's what I'd like to know. The Council has no record of her holding any title. She wasn't officially tied to any Vault sites."
Elara shrugs. "Maybe she didn't want them to know. Or maybe they did, and chose to ignore it."
Before Rowan could respond, the earth beneath their feet made a noise…a low, groaning sound that seemed almost reluctant, like an ancient creature waking from a long slumber.
The mist twists and churns, thickening violently as though pulled by unseen hands.
A grinding click echoes sharply.
Elara spins around just in time to see one of the standing stones shift…just barely, but enough to reveal a symbol partially obscured by dirt and centuries.
It matches the key in her pocket perfectly.
Without hesitation, she drops to her knees, brushing the dirt and moss away with trembling fingers.
The soil clings stubbornly, as if resisting her efforts. But the key pulses with insistent warmth, humming loudly now, as if demanding release.
Carved into the stone's base is a keyhole rimmed with a flickering silver light, faint and ethereal.
Rowan leans in, tracing the worn inscription beside it in the same ancient Vault Script.
"What was sealed by starlight may only be opened by its true keeper."
Elara blinks. "Well, that's not ominous at all."
"We should document this," Rowan says quietly, "call a containment team. Let the Council…"
"They'll bury it," Elara cuts him off sharply. "Just like they buried her disappearance. If my aunt left this for me to find, where no-one had found it before, then I need to see what's inside."
Rowan frowns deeply. "There could be protections. Traps. Or worse. We don't know what we're dealing with."
"Nobody ever does," she says, standing, "but that's why we go and explore. To try the unknown."
They lock eyes for a long moment, tension crackling between them like a storm ready to break.
Finally, Rowan sighs. "Fine. We go down a little bit. No more. Then we stop and regroup."
Elara grins despite herself. "You've got such a rebellious streak under all that tragic poetry energy."
Rowan's confused frown was almost adorable.
She takes the key from her pocket and holds it over the lock. It's pulled toward the stone like a lodestone finding its match.
The ground trembles beneath them.
Silver-blue light flares from the keyhole, rippling across the stone like liquid glass. Runes ignite. Symbols bloom like frost on a windowpane. The air snaps sharp and crystalline.
Then…a soft click.
The earth before them shifts, sliding open with a sound like stone sighing after centuries being closed.
A panel folds back, revealing a staircase descending into darkness.
Not dank or cobwebbed or theatrically terrifying, but sterile and quiet…like it had been waiting not for centuries but days.
Moony peers down the stairs with the same disdain he reserved for cold baths and overly friendly pigeons. "Oh, brilliant. A crypt stairwell. How very on-brand."
Elara's heart thud, echoing in her ears like a wild drum. She glances at Rowan, who steps forward without hesitation.
He steps in front of her without hesitation. "Let me go first."
For once, she doesn't argue.
Rowan's boots make no sound on the stone steps as he descends. Elara follows slowly, while Moony hops lightly behind with a feline huff of displeasure.
The light dims, swallowed by stone and silence.
Then they were inside.
The Vault is nothing like Elara had expected.
No bones. No tombs. No ominous sigils or curses.
Instead, a vast chamber, shaped like an inverted dome stretches out before them. Walls lined with mirrored obsidian panels, each etched with starlight runes, glowing faintly. An intricately arched doorway frames one side of the room, the unknown beyond beckoning silently.
The ceiling shimmers with embedded crystals, mimicking a night sky filled with constellations that blink slowly in alien patterns…patterns that seem to shift just beyond the edge of comprehension.
At the centre of the chamber stands a dais.
On the dais, a pedestal.
On the pedestal…nothing.
Rowan steps forward, eyes scanning the room with cautious awe.
"It's empty."
The weight of the silence presses against them like a thick velvet curtain.
Moony circles the dais, his tail twitching with that unmistakable mix of suspicion and disdain he reserves for anything that didn't involve naps or fresh cream.
Elara moves beside Rowan, the key still warm in her palm.
"Or it wasn't before," She replies.
She stares down at the pedestal, which bears the same moth-spiral sigil. Around it, faint residue glows…a circle of silver ash.
Magic had been here before.
Potent magic.
A seal. A weapon. A binding?
"There's no decay," she says softly. "This place has been preserved."
"Not preserved," Rowan mutters. "Protected. You don't ward this heavily unless you're afraid of someone getting in...or something getting out."
Moony sniffs the air, tail twitching. "I smell stardust. And thyme. Someone's been here recently."
Elara's pulse jumps. "Then this wasn't just abandoned."
"No," Rowan says grimly.
The weight of it hits her like a gust of a subterranean wind.
Her aunt might not have vanished or passed on.
She must be out there...somewhere. Perhaps trapped. Leaving a trail. Leaving the key to solve the mystery.
Because something was definitely missing from this Vault.
Rowan shifts, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as his eyes trace the starlit ceiling. "If this place is the supposed mythical Vault from history, it's unlike any record we have. These runes...they're older than the Convergence, but the architecture suggests modern enchantments layered over ancient wards."
Moony snorts. "So, it's old but new? Like a vintage thrift store but with more existential dread?"
"Exactly," Elara says with a grin. "Aunt Isadora's style, right? Vintage with a sprinkle of chaos."
Rowan folds his arms, narrowing his eyes at the dais. "Why would she seal something here and leave the pedestal empty? If the key matches the sigil on the lock outside and this dais, there should be...something."
"Maybe something is missing," Moony says, tail flicking toward the arched doorway. "Or moved somewhere else. Or worse, stolen."
Elara feels a chill…partly from the damp stone, partly from the thought. "If perhaps it was stolen, whoever took it might be watching us right now."
Rowan's gaze sharpens. "That would explain the protections. The wards in Westwood are designed to alert and deter intruders."
Moony pads over to the doorway, sniffing the air again. "And the thyme smell? Someone definitely passed through here recently. And not just for a stroll."
Elara steps closer to the dais, kneeling to inspect the circle of silver ash. She gently traces a finger along the faint shimmer. "Look at this. This shimmering ash residue is recent. Magic this potent doesn't just disappear; it lingers."
Rowan pulls out a small vial from his coat pocket, filled with a sparkling blue liquid. "A cleansing draught. I keep one handy for moments like these. I can test if this ash is residual or active?"
Before Elara can answer, Moony yawns theatrically. "Only if you don't mind me looking on with the judgment of a thousand disappointed ancestors."
Rowan smiles briefly, uncorking the vial and carefully pouring a few drops over the ash. The silver ash shimmer brightens, then pulses…a soft heartbeat of light.
"There," Rowan exclaims, eyes alight. "Active. The seal wasn't broken long ago."
Elara's mind races. "If Aunt Isadora was the Keeper, maybe she took whatever was here for safekeeping and this is a backup seal, a clue."
Moony flops onto the floor, belly up. "Clues are great. Less great when they involve underground crypts and ominous warnings."
Rowan crouches next to Moony, shaking his head with a rare smile. "You're the only cat I know who treats magical emergencies like an inconvenience."
Moony blinks slowly. "I'm a professional at maintaining the illusion of calm. You're welcome."
Elara laughs softly at their banter, but glances toward the arched doorway again.
The darkness beyond feels alive…thick with secrets and possibilities.
"We need to see what's beyond that door," she says quietly.
Rowan hesitates. "It could be a trap."
"That is true. But I'm sure there is more to this," Elara replies. "Aunt Isadora trusted me enough to leave the key. That means she wants me to find out what's really here."
Moony stretches languidly and hops up onto the pedestal, landing with the grace of a cat who knows exactly how important he is. "Well, then. Shall we venture further into the abyss and find out what Auntie was hiding? Because I'm positively buzzing with excitement."
Rowan looks between Elara and Moony, then sighs. "Fine. But we proceed carefully. No rash decisions."
Elara tucks the key back into her pocket, eyes gleaming. "Careful is my middle name."
"Is it really?" Moony asks sarcastically, arching a dubious eyebrow.
She shoots him a mock glare. "No. But it should be."
They step towards the arched doorway together…their breaths shallow, hearts steady but pounding and cross into the unknown.