They didn't descend at once.
The spire was surrounded by whispering stone — layers of shale that cracked underfoot and echoed too far, as if the valley itself was listening.
The obsidian tower pulsed once as they approached.
Not with heat.
With recognition.
"Why is it glowing?" Trellen asked.
"Because it knows who I am," Lira answered, stepping forward.
"Or maybe… who I used to be."
The runes along the spire's sides began to shimmer, burning not with flame, but with shifting lightless color — hues that didn't exist when the sun was born.
Davin unsheathed his sword. "I don't like this."
Ansha didn't move. She was staring at the spire with hollow eyes.
"This is not flamecraft," she whispered.
"This is Vaultscript — older than language. Older than truth."
Lira placed her palm against the obsidian.
Her hand burned — not from fire, but from memory transference. All at once, the Vault answered:
A scream.
A white room.
A child in chains.
The first god to ever bleed.
The ground shook.
A circular section of stone beneath their feet hissed and peeled away — like a wound reopening.
A stairwell appeared. Carved in glass. Spiraling down.
Lira turned to the others.
"You don't have to follow."
Trellen laughed once, grim. "I followed you into a dead storm, remember? This is almost comfortable."
Davin nodded. "You're the only light I trust down there."
Ansha said nothing, but took Lira's hand. Her fingers were ice.
"We go," she whispered.
They descended into darkness.
Step by step.
Memory by memory.
The lower they went, the heavier the air became — not in pressure, but in weight of thought.
Voices began to echo around them.
Not theirs.
Other ones.
"Do you remember your first lie?"
"The flame cannot save you from yourself."
"The last vault must be opened with silence."
At the bottom, the stair ended in a chamber of mirrors.
Not reflections. Revelations.
Each mirror showed a different version of the same moment:
A fire igniting.
A city falling.
A girl screaming.
A boy turning away.
A god choosing not to stop it.
Lira stepped forward. In every mirror — she saw herself.
But in one… the figure turned toward her.
And smiled.
Then a voice spoke.
All around.
Nowhere and everywhere.
"You carry the flame's last burden."
"But the vault does not open for what you carry."
"It opens for what you abandon."
A crack ran through the mirror before her.
And behind it, a door appeared.
But before she could step through, the chamber shook.
Above, the sounds of war echoed down the spiral — clashing steel, horns, screams.
Ashrel had entered the valley.
And the Vault would not stay closed much longer.