The workshop smelled of old paper, brass oil, and river damp. The chill of the Carrion Adept's gaze still lingered in the cracks of the walls.
Liran stood near the door, eyes on the street beyond, dagger loose in hand. Ashra leaned over my workbench, fingers tracing the words my dead father's hand had somehow left.
I sat between them, staring down at the page.
The Vault stirs. The Gate weakens. They are coming.
"What does it mean?" I asked softly, more to myself than to them.
Liran grunted. "It means the Carrion Order's waking something old and ugly. Something they started when they burned the Guild."
Ashra didn't speak. Not yet. Her gaze was fixed on the old leather journal—as if willing more words to appear.
I rubbed the side of my neck, feeling the faint scar there. The mark left years ago in the ruins where Liran first pulled me from the dark. The mark I never understood.
Ashra finally spoke.
"We can't wait anymore. The Vault is stirring. If we don't get there first—"
She tapped the page.
"—they will. And when they do... they'll break the Gate wide."
Liran gave a low laugh, bitter as old iron.
"Maybe that's the plan. Let the old world bleed into this one. The First Alchemist's secret wasn't life, was it? It was un-death. A gate between breathing flesh and something far worse."
I glanced at him.
"You said you learned that in the ruins."
His jaw tightened.
"I saw it. In the stone vaults below Caldrith's Spine. Half-dead machines humming in the dark. Glass chambers filled with... things. Not living. Not gone. The Guild started something they couldn't end. And the Carrion Order made sure they never could."
Ashra straightened. Her fingers reached into her cloak and came out with a folded scrap of parchment—blackened, scorched, edges curled.
A piece of the old Guild map.
"While you were sealing circles here, I traded for this." She unfolded it carefully. "Fragment of the Philosopher's Circuit. One of the last pieces. From a contact in Lowriver."
Liran stared at it, frowning.
"That's the Southern mark. The broken sigil."
I leaned closer. There—a faint line curved into a forgotten district below the city's heart.
The Catacombs of Seven Ashes.
"I thought they collapsed those tunnels after the Purge," I murmured.
"They did," Ashra said. "Or they said they did. But this mark says otherwise."
A heavy quiet filled the workshop.
I could almost feel the weight of the Carrion Order's eyes—watching from the dark, patient, knowing we were close.
Liran sheathed his blade.
"We need allies. Someone who knows the Catacombs. And supplies. Salt. Cold iron. Ward-lamps. The old ways. Because if the Carrion Order's stirring the Vault..."
Ashra's voice was low, hard.
"...we may not all come back."
I glanced at my father's journal again.
The Vault stirs. The Gate weakens. They are coming.
A shadow flickered across the wall—just for a breath.
I turned, knife ready.
But there was only dust.
And faintly, as if from far below the stone, I heard the soft click of old gears turning.
The first lock of the Vault... shifting into place.