The Sepulcher does not yield its secrets easily. Christopher learns that maps and knowledge are not enough, for the Ethereal Snow guards the entrance, and even time itself bends around it. Yet when determination collides with fear, a presence greater than any of them makes its will known.
─── ❖ ────── ❖ ────── ❖ ───
The map has not left my mind. I have traced the lines again and again until I know its contours better than the backs of my hands. Yet the more I study, the more I see the truth: knowing the place is not enough.
The scribes confirmed it today, though none spoke with eagerness. They whispered as if reluctant to let the words out, as if naming the thing might summon it. The Sepulcher is not always open. Its entrance sleeps beneath the Pale Expanse, sealed as tightly as any vault of stone. Only when the Ethereal Snow falls does the way appear.
The name alone chills me. They say it is not like any snowfall known to man. The flakes are vast and slow, drifting like burning ash, glowing faintly with colors that do not belong to this earth. To stand beneath it is to hear whispers in a tongue older than language. To breathe it in is to taste memory.
And it comes only once in a cycle.
I asked what a cycle meant, but the scribes would not give one answer. Some said a year. Others said an age. One, her eyes half-clouded, muttered that time bends near the Sepulcher, and what feels like months may be centuries.
Richard frowned, muttering about wasted resources and the madness of waiting on snow that might never fall. But Bianca was silent, her hand resting on her middle, her gaze fixed somewhere far away. When she finally spoke, it was barely above a breath.
"It will come. It has to. He stirs when I think of it."
I did not press her. How could I? The Labyrinth itself seemed to lean closer at her words, as though it too expected something.
So now we wait. And I hate waiting.
I told them I would leave for the Sepulcher as soon as I could prepare. The map had shown enough, and though the Ethereal Snow had not yet fallen, I could not sit idle. The Sepulcher calls.
Bianca agreed without hesitation. Her hand rested on her middle as she said it, calm and resolute, as if the child within her spoke through her.
Richard's response was immediate and fierce. He rose to his feet so quickly the chair scraped harshly against the stone floor. "No. You are not going."
Bianca did not flinch. "It is what is best for the baby. You saw how he stirred when the map was revealed."
"I saw you frightened and I saw books flying from the shelves," he snapped. "I will not risk you or him. Do you understand? That place is dangerous, beyond dangerous, and even with all my resources I may not be able to protect you."
His voice struck the air like iron on stone. Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring. Bianca's jaw set, her eyes fixed on him, and she did not blink. The two of them stared across the table, a quiet war burning in their eyes.
Then the air shifted.
It began at the floor, a fine silver mist seeping across the flagstones like water finding cracks. It moved with slow certainty, curling around chair legs, licking at the hems of our garments. Tiny sparks shimmered within it, rising in delicate tendrils that reached toward us before dissolving. The room dimmed as though the light itself bent, leaving only the silver glow that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
The mist was not cold, nor warm, but heavy, carrying the weight of breath just exhaled. My chest tightened as though it pressed inward, and for a moment no one spoke. Even Richard's fury faltered in the face of it. His shoulders eased, though his eyes still burned, and Bianca's hand found his across the table.
The sparks faded, the mist thinning until it was no more than memory, but the silence remained. No one dared to break it.
I write this now with unease. For if this is how the child answers disagreement in the womb, what voice will he wield when he breathes his first air?
─── ❖ ────── ❖ ────── ❖ ───
Christopher's pen captures more than arguments and doubts. It records the moment Heaven itself weighed in. The unborn child answered not with words, but with mist and sparks, silencing debate. Christopher does not yet know the measure of what he is witnessing, but his unease is proof enough: the story of the Sepulcher is already unfolding, whether they are ready or not.