The entrance to the catacombs was a fine start. A door. But a door into a blind, shifting maze was no better than a wall.
Viregate was not a fortress of mere stone and iron. It was a puzzle box, a mechanical beast of grinding gears and sliding walls, its corridors realigning themselves on a schedule dictated by arcane machinery and blood-sorcery. A map of Viregate on Monday was a work of fiction by Tuesday. It was designed by a paranoid genius to be impossible to infiltrate, impossible to escape, and, most importantly, impossible to map.
Caelan, standing in the silence of his study with the coordinates from Kasien Locke burning a hole in his pocket, almost admired the sheer, malevolent artistry of it.
Almost.
