Through years of fragmented study, Erik had pieced together scraps of knowledge. Whatever lay behind that door bore a deep enmity with the gods. Its conflict with them had been so violent, so absolute, that the remnants of its defeat had left a scar on the world. That scar was known in hushed voices as the Spectacle.
Erik pressed his palm against the door. The runes beneath his hand throbbed, answering his touch, and the whispers surged, no longer faint but insistent, curling around his mind like smoke. He tightened his jaw and forced his hand to the handle. With a deep breath, he turned it, the sound of the mechanism groaning like something reluctant to be disturbed.
The door creaked open, revealing yet another barrier: a wall of reinforced glass, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Erik had built this safeguard himself, layer upon layer of protective wards etched into its frame, for what lay beyond demanded nothing less.
