The first landing tasted like iron and chalk. The walls were clean stone scored with sigils faded by a thousand palms. The wardlight behind us slipped thin; the dark ahead took shape around ankle-height guide glyphs that woke as our boots passed.
"Anchor on my count," I said. "Four in, two hold, three out."
"Already there," Cael said.
A bell tone chimed soft in the stone—first rung. The timer woke.
At the second turn the stair widened into a short hall that ended in a split. Left: a corridor sloping down, faint hum underfoot, air warmer. Right: a narrow stair up with the crisp draft of a shaft. Painted arrows—old—pointed both ways and contradicted each other. Between them, a small wooden sign had been hung crooked: Clinic.
A mannequin lay crumpled under a fallen beam prop. Its chest box clicked an honest distress rhythm. Ward goo—fake blood—streaked one sleeve. Someone had placed a child-sized dummy near its knees, eyes painted wide and wet.
"What do you see?" Cael asked.
