Aurora slept like a log near the cellar, one arm stretched over her eyes, the other limply curled near her waist. Her staff leaned against the wall, untouched, gleaming softly in the low magical light that pulsed from the rune-stamped ceiling.
The air was cold—damp from centuries of stone and silence—but it didn't seem to bother her. She breathed deeply, like a beast that had finally found stillness, the fatigue of war melting into slumber, at least for now.
Not far from her, Henry and Merlin sat, quiet murmurs floating between them like smoke. A candle flickered between their shadows, struggling against the dark that clung to the ancient walls. The scent of burnt herbs and melted wax mixed with the musk of the underground, damp and metallic, like old blood sealed in stone.
"So the king of Berkimhum is indeed wise. But wisdom, shall we say, comes with a cost," Merlin muttered, voice a rasp more than a tone. His breath fogged in the chill.
