The entrance was hidden beneath a crumbling shrine, long abandoned, its stone figures half-devoured by moss and soot. To any passerby, it was another ruin of the old faith, a place forgotten by all but rats and dust.
But Nysha knew the way. She knelt before the cracked altar, prying loose a stone carved with faded runes. Behind it lay a narrow stairwell, spiraling down into the earth.
"Here," she said, glancing over her shoulder at Lindarion. Her voice was hushed, as though afraid the shadows themselves might overhear. "Few know of this place. It was built before the Saint, before even the city. Old priests used it for rituals, hidden, forbidden things. Now it's mine."
Lindarion adjusted his coat, making sure Zerathis was hidden beneath the dark folds. The faint hum of the blade still pulsed against his ribs, eager, hungry.
He stepped forward without hesitation.
