Dawn broke weak and colorless as we left the workshop behind.
Lowriver slept, the streets empty save for crows perched along the guttering walls. They watched us pass with gleaming eyes, silent as the grave.
Ashra led the way, cloak drawn tight, her boots muffled in the dust. Liran moved behind, blade hidden beneath his coat, eyes scanning every doorway, every shadow.
I carried nothing but my father's journal and the broken compass—its needle twitching as if drawn by some invisible thread.
The Chapel of Silent Brass crouched at the edge of the old quarter, half-sunken in its own ruin. Time had hollowed its stone, cracked its spires, burned its iron doors until they hung loose and blackened in the frame.
No prayers had been spoken here since the Purge.
"Smell that?" Liran muttered as we drew near.
I nodded.
Copper. And ash.
Ashra paused at the gate, fingers brushing the old sigils carved into the arch.
"Wards still hold," she said softly. "We'll have to break them."
I swallowed.
"The Order never dared touch this place. Why?"
She glanced back, her eyes dark beneath the hood.
"Because the last Circle-Masters died here. Burning themselves rather than yield the Vault's key. The echoes remain. Even the Carrion fear old ghosts."
Liran pulled a small vial from his pouch.
"White ash. From the kiln of the Black Priory. It'll unbind the seals—if they don't kill us first."
I set the journal down, spreading the old map Dren Hollow had given us. The outline of the Chapel, drawn in shaky hand. Circles, arrows, lines of faint script.
There. Beneath the altar. The hidden vault.
"If the old vault's intact," I murmured, "the last tools of the Guild are there. Charms. Seals. Maybe even a fragment of the Philosopher's Circuit."
Ashra scattered iron dust in a circle. Liran poured the ash. The sigils on the door flared faintly, old light waking after a century of sleep.
Then died.
The door creaked inward.
The Chapel yawned wide, its breath cold and hollow.
Inside, the light faltered. Shadows hung thick as wool, wrapped around broken pews and shattered icons. The brass altar stood blackened and cracked, the floor beneath stained dark as dried blood.
We stepped inside.
"Stay close," Ashra whispered.
The floor groaned beneath our feet.
I could feel it then—deep below—the hum of old alchemy. The Circuit's sleeping heart. The Vault of Forgotten Tools.
And something else.
A presence. Watching. Waiting.
We moved slowly past the pews. Old bones crumbled underfoot. Half-burned scrolls lay in heaps of ash. At the far wall, the altar loomed, its surface scarred with knife marks, old blood, ancient seals.
"There," Liran pointed.
A trapdoor, half-hidden beneath broken stone.
Ashra crouched beside it, brushing away dust.
"It's locked."
Liran knelt, pulling a thin silver blade from his coat.
"Not for long."
He worked fast, the soft clicks of old tumblers breaking the heavy silence.
The floor behind us creaked.
I froze.
Ashra stiffened.
Liran's hand paused.
Footsteps. Faint. Careful.
Someone else was here.
Watching.
Liran cursed under his breath, turning the final pin. The lock gave with a soft sigh.
"Open it. Now."
Ashra heaved the trapdoor aside.
Below, a narrow stair fell into darkness—cold and deep as the grave.
"Go," I hissed. "Quick—before they close the net."
Ashra dropped down, blade in hand. I followed, journal clutched tight.
Liran glanced back once—at the shadow moving behind the far pew.
Then he vanished down the stair, pulling the trap shut behind him.
Darkness swallowed us.
Only the sound of old machines below—turning, humming, waiting.
And above, faint and cold, a voice whispered.
Corwin... the Chain waits...