The final vault was buried beneath layers of stone, roots, and centuries of silence. Eron moved ahead of Rai, using a half-broken torch to clear away hanging vines as the old alchemical door slid open with a loud creak. The moment the seal cracked, a wave of cold, sterile air rushed out—tinged faintly with herbal residue and timeworn dust.
Rai stepped in behind him, squinting through the darkness. "This has to be the final chamber," he murmured.
Eron nodded, whistling low. "Yeah, Even the walls feel expensive."
And they did. Unlike the earlier rooms cluttered with storage boxes and scattered scrolls, this one was pristine. Smooth blackstone tiles lined the floor, marked with faintly glowing alchemical runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Several chests lay untouched along the edges, and in the center stood a glass container—housing a single worn journal, its cover embroidered with a silver tree and a strange sigil Rai didn't recognize.
