The lower vaults smelled of damp stone, old wax, and the faint copper tang of secrets long buried.
Commander Draven led the way, torch held high, the flame guttering in the draft that seeped through unseen cracks in the walls. Behind him walked the triplets, Aeron in front, black cloak sweeping the uneven flagstones; Kael at his shoulder, hand resting on the hilt of his sword; Theron bringing up the rear, eyes scanning every shadow as though the darkness itself might grow teeth. Seren followed between Kael and Theron, a plain grey cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, hood raised to hide the silver scars at her throat. The bond thrummed between the four of them...low, taut, a single thread stretched almost to breaking.
They had come without guards. No announcement. Just the four of them and Draven, moving through the palace's forgotten underbelly like ghosts returning to claim what had been stolen.
