The air inside the vault was still. Too still.
Ira's boots echoed against obsidian floors that shimmered faintly under his lamp's glow, throwing shadows that didn't quite match the walls. Symbols carved deep into the black stone spiraled in impossible patterns, twisting slightly whenever he blinked. He stopped, chest heaving, and muttered, "Great. Either this place is haunted… or I'm losing it."
The narrow corridor opened into a domed chamber. At its center stood the vault itself: a monolith of black stone, smooth and featureless except for faint cracks along its edges, which shimmered like veins of liquid night. It was beautiful and terrifying in the same glance, a thing older than memory and older than men.
Ira stepped closer, hand hovering over the surface. A whisper rose from the walls, unintelligible, like the murmur of water in a cave. "You shouldn't… go further…" it hissed, and he swore it was different from the wind.
"Good thing I don't follow rules," he muttered, squaring his shoulders. "Otherwise I'd be somewhere warm and safe."
The vault resisted his touch. The moment his fingers grazed the obsidian surface, the room seemed to react. Shadows stretched unnaturally. Faint, frantic whispers filled his ears—too many voices, overlapping, laughing and crying in a language he didn't understand, or maybe one he wasn't meant to hear. He staggered back, rubbing his temples.
"Okay. Okay… deep breaths," he muttered. "Don't die. Don't faint. Don't go insane. Easy stuff."
The monolith pulsed slightly with each step he took toward it. A section of floor shifted beneath his boots, tilting almost imperceptibly. A slit in the wall released a thin spout of water that slicked the floor. Another misstep could send him sliding into darkness.
Then the map revealed itself.
It lay folded inside a shallow recess in the stone. The paper—or whatever it was—glimmered faintly, almost liquid under his lamp. The moment Ira's fingers brushed it, a surge of images and whispers erupted in his mind. Shadows of lands he'd never seen, cities half-formed, storms splitting seas open. Fleeting visions of creatures, of fires burning, of impossible mountains. The whispers were manic, ecstatic, overlapping—mocking, taunting, warning, promising, all at once.
He staggered back, holding the map like it could bite. "Whoa. Okay. Yep. Definitely not normal."
He leaned against the vault wall, trying to breathe over the chaos in his mind. "Step one: survive. Step two: don't die. Step three… try not to have a total breakdown before I even leave the room."
"Wait wasn't there a step three before this?" He mused shaking his head as if trying to shake the thought.
The map's visions ebbed and flowed as he studied the obsidian walls. Every glance back at the recess revealed new lines of runes, twisting, writhing like they were alive, almost responding to the map's influence. He could feel them tugging at his thoughts, teasing him.
"Great," he muttered, "a puzzle with a side of existential terror. Perfect morning."
The return trip through the vault was no easier. Shadows stretched and flickered at the edges of his vision. Faint whispers clung to the air, spilling into his mind in manic fragments. One moment he saw a doorway leading somewhere impossible, the next it vanished. Each step tested his balance, his focus, his sanity.
When he finally emerged onto the topmost ledge outside, chest heaving and arms trembling, he looked back at the obsidian doorway. The black stone shimmered faintly, as if aware he had survived its gauntlet. The whispers faded, leaving only a faint ringing in his ears.
Ira clutched the map close, eyes narrowing. "Step one: survived. Step two: conquered. Step three… figure out what this thing wants from me before it drives me completely mad."
And with that, he began the careful, deliberate descent toward the skiff, knowing the vault's hold on him hadn't fully loosened.