Falling. Again.
Not the chaotic, panicked kind. Not a plummet.
This was slower. Deliberate. Like sinking through ink, through something vast and unseen.
Ezra didn't flail. Didn't scream. There was no wind, no rush of air, no sense of acceleration. Just an overwhelming weight, pressing from all directions, muffling everything like deep water.
Then—
Stillness.
His boots met solid ground.
Ezra exhaled sharply, steadying himself. Wherever he was now, it wasn't the table.
The air smelled different—aged parchment, candle smoke, the faintest trace of something metallic. The dim glow of gas lamps flickered along the edges of his vision, casting long, stretching shadows.
A corridor. Narrow. Walls lined with wooden doors, each marked with a symbol that shifted when he tried to focus on it.
His gut twisted.
This place.... it wasn't unfamiliar.
Somehow, he knew it.
Ezra turned. The faceless man was gone.
He was alone.
His jaw tightened. Think.
The last thing he remembered—the deal. He had agreed, and then… this.
His fingers twitched at his sides. His instincts screamed that he shouldn't be here.
But he also knew—he was meant to be here.
Slowly, he moved forward, boots silent against the uneven stone floor. The air shifted as he passed each door, something deep in his chest tightening with every step.
Then—
A whisper.
Not a word. Not a sentence.
Just a sound.
A presence curling at the edge of perception, sliding through the cracks between reality and something just beyond it.
Ezra's breath stayed even. He didn't stop.
But when he reached the end of the corridor, he did.
Because there, standing alone, was a door unlike the others.
Not wood.Not stone.
Something else.
A material that looked too smooth, too dark, as if it swallowed the light rather than reflected it. No handle. No hinges.
And there, at its center—
The sigil.
The same one from The Hidden Laws. The same one carved into the dead man's chest.
Ezra's pulse didn't quicken. It slowed. Became methodical, controlled.
This wasn't fear. This was recognition.
His hand lifted before he could stop it, fingers brushing the surface of the door.
The moment he made contact—
The whisper became a voice.
Clear. Direct. Speaking his name.
"Ezra Lockwood."
A pause. Then—
"Do you remember?"
Ezra's breath caught
Because for the first time—
He did.