Kael slid a single file down the stair, fingers trailing along the carved wall.
The whispering wrapped around him like a cloth.
He reached a landing where the chamber widened into a hollow.
In the center stood a low false altar, its surface blood-dark in the old stain of time.
It was not a place for miracles—it was a place saints had sealed because the world could not bear what sat below.
Kael bent, studying the marks.
He had been looking for proof—anything that might explain why this place felt like the edge of the world.
He found a shallow notch where a relic once fit.
A small stone, round and dull, set in the curve of the altar like an eye.
It hummed when his fingers passed close, answering to him with a faint ache.
Above, Elysia eased down, almost in silent.
Her fingers curled around the talisman in her sleeve.
She imagined pressing the runes and watching him breathe his last—imagined that moment before guilt could even bloom.
