The first thing Eron noticed was the cold.
It wasn't the kind of chill you got from a drafty house or winter air sneaking through cracks. This was the deep, stale cold of a place untouched for years — an air that felt heavier, as if it carried the weight of memory itself.
His eyes adjusted to the dim glow from a single, flickering lantern hung crookedly from the ceiling. The space beyond the door was larger than he'd expected, far larger than the cramped rooms of the old man's home above. The stone walls were bare, except for shelves stacked with old tools, dusty vials, and strange, half-assembled mechanisms.
And in the center of the room…
Three long wooden tables.
Each one draped in a heavy, dust-covered cloth.
Eron stepped forward slowly, the medallion still in his hand. The air smelled faintly metallic, and beneath it, something almost sweet — a cloying scent that made his stomach tighten.
He didn't want to know.
