The corridor leading to the old west wing felt colder than the rest of the mansion.
Not colder in temperature—but in presence.
Zyra felt it with every step, as though the walls themselves were watching, listening, remembering.
"This part of the house was sealed after my grandfather's death," Ethan said quietly, unlocking a heavy wooden door dusted with age. "No one comes here anymore. Not even the staff."
The lock clicked open with a sound that echoed unnervingly down the hallway.
The door creaked as he pushed it inward.
The room beyond was frozen in time.
Dust-covered shelves lined the walls, stacked with leather-bound books, yellowed journals, and strange artifacts whose purposes Zyra couldn't guess. Heavy curtains blocked the windows, allowing only thin slashes of gray light to slip through.
"This was his study," Ethan said. "Robert Blackwood never trusted anyone. Not even his own blood."
Zyra stepped inside, her heels echoing softly on the wooden floor. Something about the room made her chest tighten.
"He lived like he was hiding from the world," she murmured.
"Or hiding something from it."
Ethan closed the door behind them.
The sound of the latch sliding into place made Zyra's breath hitch.
For a brief second, they were alone—completely alone—in a room filled with secrets and silence.
They began searching.
Zyra moved toward a massive desk in the center of the room, running her fingers over carved symbols etched into its surface. "These markings… they don't look decorative."
Ethan leaned closer. "They're not. My grandfather believed symbols carried power. He used them as codes."
She looked up at him. "Do you know how to read them?"
"No," he admitted. "But I know someone who might."
As he spoke, Zyra noticed something odd.
One of the bookshelves didn't align with the others.
"Ethan," she said slowly, pointing. "That shelf… it's slightly tilted."
He followed her gaze, then crossed the room and pressed his palm against the wood.
It shifted.
Just slightly.
They froze.
Then—click.
The shelf slid aside with a low rumble, revealing a narrow passage hidden behind it.
Zyra's heart slammed against her ribs. "Your grandfather really didn't trust banks," she whispered.
Ethan let out a breathless laugh. "No. He trusted walls."
The passage was dark, steep, and narrow.
"I'll go first," Ethan said immediately.
"No," Zyra countered. "We go together."
He turned to argue—then stopped when he saw her face.
She wasn't afraid.
She was determined.
"Alright," he said softly. "Together."
They descended.
The hidden room below was smaller than expected, but what it lacked in size, it made up for in significance.
A single chest sat in the center.
Metal. Old. Locked.
"This is it," Ethan said, his voice barely audible. "This is what they're looking for."
Zyra knelt beside the chest. "Or what they're willing to kill for."
Before Ethan could respond—
A loud bang echoed from above.
Footsteps.
Multiple.
Zyra's blood ran cold. "We're not alone."
Ethan grabbed her hand instinctively, pulling her close. "They found it."
Her fingers tightened around his.
In that moment, fear disappeared—replaced by something stronger.
Trust.
"Whatever happens," Zyra said quietly, "we don't let them win."
Ethan met her gaze, something fierce burning in his eyes. "They won't."
Above them, the footsteps grew louder.
Closer.
And the mansion, once silent, seemed to breathe again—alive with danger, secrets, and the promise of war.