The stairs spiraled down into the mountain's heart, carved not by mortal hands but by something older—hungrier. Each step moaned under their weight, the air thickening as if time itself slowed the deeper they went.
They did not speak.
They couldn't.
Words would shatter the illusion of courage they wore like armor.
The flickering torches cast twitching shadows on the stone walls. Ancient glyphs lined the descent—worn, cracked, but not dead. Ash ran his hand across one as they passed. The glyph flared—then dimmed. He didn't touch another.
Eira led, sword drawn, breath shallow. Her mind refused to imagine what might wait below. Every instinct screamed to turn back. But Nox's death still rang in her blood, a promise echoing through her every step: this doesn't end until the truth bleeds into light.
Darian followed, leaning on Lira. His wound pulsed with every movement, but he kept going. There was steel in his eyes now—dull but unyielding.
