The stronghold had layers.
That was the first thing Damien noticed as he moved inward from the main chamber—not the way a building had floors, not with the clean horizontal separation of constructed levels, but the way something grown and carved over time developed depth. Organic. Uneven. Each section slightly lower than the last, the terrain descending in gradual increments that were easy to miss individually and impossible to ignore in aggregate.
He had been walking downward since he started.
He kept walking.
The sounds of the main chamber faded behind him—the residual crackle of Cerbe's flame on scorched surfaces, the settling of disturbed earth, the particular silence that followed a large number of things ceasing to exist. Ahead, the stronghold continued into itself. Passages branched and reconnected, carved through compressed demonic matter that had hardened over time into something close to stone.
Fenrir moved with him.
Cerbe and Luton too.
