The stair wound down like the throat of some ancient beast, stone walls slick with cold damp. My fingers brushed old carvings as we descended—sigils worn thin by time, their meanings half-lost.
Ashra's lantern flared dimly ahead, casting long shadows.
Liran came last, quiet as breath, the trapdoor sealed above us.
No turning back now.
The stair opened into a chamber vast and low—arched stone heavy with age. Shelves stood in crooked rows, laden with tarnished tools, cracked glass vials, and books bound in rotting leather. The scent of old iron and alchemist's oil filled the air.
Ashra exhaled softly.
"So much survived..."
Liran moved to the nearest shelf, fingers brushing dust from a black iron circlet—its surface etched with the runes of warding. His eyes flicked to me.
"Tools of the First Circle. Forgotten, not destroyed."
I crossed to an ancient chest. The lock broke under Ashra's knife, revealing coils of fine copper wire, stones of white chalk, a jar of silver dust—once used for binding spirits into matter.
My father's notes whispered in my mind.
The Circuit requires living gold. A link unbroken. Old tools, old ways...
Ashra pulled a bundle of parchment from the shelf—blueprints, ink faded but legible. Circuits drawn in patterns that stirred unease in my bones. Designs I had only seen hinted at in forbidden texts.
"Here," she said. "A fragment of the Philosopher's Circuit. Incomplete... but dangerous."
Liran uncovered a case of glass vials, the contents swirling black and silver.
"Alkahest," he muttered. "Enough to burn through iron—and bone."
We gathered what we could. Small things. Dangerous things.
Seals. Dust. Broken rings of warding.
A blade etched with quicksilver. A cracked lens for seeing the Veil. A coil of living thread, still pulsing faintly.
And then the sound came.
Above.
A heavy footfall. Slow. Measured.
Another.
Liran froze, hand tight on his blade.
"They've entered the Chapel."
Ashra's face darkened.
"Carrion Adepts. Or worse."
The old chains along the wall stirred, rattling faintly in the still air.
I felt it too.
A presence awakening. Below us. Beneath the stone.
The Vault stirs. The Chain weakens.
"Something's bound here," I whispered. "Something the Circle trapped before they died."
Liran's gaze swept the ceiling.
"We need to move. Now."
But Ashra knelt at the vault's heart, fingers tracing the final seal in the floor—a sigil burned deep, blackened and scorched.
Her voice was low. Tight.
"This is no simple vault. It's a prison."
I stared.
"Prison for what?"
She met my eyes.
"For something the Circle couldn't destroy. The last Alkahest Construct. The Circuit's failed heart."
The air trembled.
Chains groaned in the walls.
Above, the heavy tread paused... as if listening.
Liran hissed.
"They know we're here."
The stone at our feet pulsed once, faint and cold. A breath, slow and ancient.
Ashra stood fast.
"We have what we came for. To linger is death."
I gathered the plans, the tools, the fragments of the Circuit. Liran shoved the Alkahest vials into his coat. Ashra snatched the iron circlet.
We turned to flee.
Above, the trapdoor creaked.
Light spilled down.
A shadow blocked the stair.
Tall.
Thin.
Face hidden behind a mask of pale iron.
A Carrion Adept.
Its voice drifted down—soft, patient.
"You should not have come here, children of Endren. The Chain breaks. The Circuit stirs. Soon... all will be remade."
Ashra's blade gleamed in the dark.
Liran's hand tightened on his dagger.
I felt the weight of the stolen secrets in my pack—the old tools, the forbidden knowledge.
And the slow tightening of the net.