The moment the stone doors of the cathedral sealed shut behind him, Miles felt the temperature shift. Not colder, not warmer, just… Heavier. As though the air had turned to glass and sound to sand.
His captors moved with practiced steps, ushering him through a narrow side corridor that spiraled downward in a slow, tightening arc. He didn't resist, counting their movements, watching their stances, memorizing the angles they kept between each other.
They weren't just guards, they were trained sweepers. The kind sent to clean up after dangerous things.
Cheshire remained silent now, somewhere beyond Miles' vision. Not vanished, but wary, watching, waiting.
They descended into a chamber not lit by flame or spell, but by faint pulses of light running along the walls, arcane veins, glowing blue. Everything here was refined, precise. Built with a purpose.
