The stairwell did not creak.
That was the first thing Aaron noticed. Old structures complained—wood groaned under weight, stone settled with faint shifts—but this hidden spiral beneath the western archives dropped in perfect silence, as though the builders had forbidden even echoes.
Xeno led the way, one hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword. Not drawn, but positioned exactly where a quick pull would bring steel into play. He moved with the calm certainty of someone who had walked worse shadows and come out the other side.
Shion followed close behind Aaron, her notebook pressed tight against her side, charcoal already marking faint streaks across her fingers. Tomo brought up the rear, lantern in one hand, his usual restless energy somehow compressed into quick, quiet steps. He couldn't quite stop himself from whispering.
"This is the most illegal-feeling staircase I've ever been on," Tomo said, voice low but carrying in the stillness.
"You've never been on an illegal staircase," Shion replied without turning.
"Emotionally illegal, then. You know what I mean."
Aaron ignored the exchange. His focus stayed on the walls. They weren't merely old. They felt wrong in a way that went beyond age. The stones had been cut with ruthless accuracy—edges sharp enough to draw blood if touched carelessly, joints so tight a blade couldn't slip between them. These weren't built for beauty or even utility in the usual sense. They were made to last forever, without compromise.
"We're past the palace's foundation," Aaron said quietly.
Shion glanced over. "You can tell?"
"Yes."
"How?"
He traced a finger along one block, feeling the unyielding surface. "Above ground, everything anticipates change. Repairs. Replacements. These stones weren't designed for any of that."
Tomo tilted his head. "So… permanent permanent?"
"Exactly."
Xeno spoke without looking back. "Older than the palace."
The word hung between them like smoke. Older carried implications here—layers of history no one had bothered to record, or perhaps no one had been allowed to.
The spiral leveled out into a narrow corridor. No dust coated the floor. No damp clung to the air. Only a preserved stillness, as if the space had been waiting, sealed, for centuries.
Shion raised the lantern. Light slid across the far wall and halted.
A door stood there. Not wood framed in iron, not even heavy metal. Just stone—a single seamless slab fitted so perfectly into the surrounding wall that it might have grown there. Faint grooves traced across its surface, catching the flame like veins of captured lightning. Dwarven script ran through those grooves, not chiseled but inlaid, metal fused directly into the rock.
Shion drew in a quick breath. "Oh."
Tomo leaned past Aaron's shoulder. "Oh is not the reaction I want to hear right now."
"It's a lock," Shion said, almost to herself.
"Of course it's a lock," Tomo muttered. "Secret doors are always locks."
"No." She stepped closer, voice dropping. "It's a language lock."
Aaron felt the shift inside him—the recognition of something systematic, not merely mechanical. A protocol, not a barrier.
"Can you read it?" he asked.
Shion lifted the lantern higher, studying the inscriptions. Her eyes tracked slowly, lips moving in silent rehearsal.
"This is old," she said. "Older than the map we found."
Tomo frowned. "How can you tell?"
"The grammar. Modern dwarven writing is stripped down—efficient, practical. This is ceremonial. Layered. Invocation patterns, repeated commands."
She hesitated, fingers hovering near the grooves without making contact.
"It's not just a door," she continued. "It's a test."
Xeno's grip tightened on his sword hilt. "What kind of test?"
Shion swallowed. "The kind meant to keep almost everyone out."
Tomo let out a short, nervous laugh. "Well. That's comforting."
Shion closed her eyes for a moment. "Don't talk. Please."
They fell silent. The corridor seemed to lean in closer.
She began tracing the symbols in the air, just above the metal lines, whispering fragments under her breath—not reading aloud yet, but piecing it together. Aaron watched her. This was Shion when the rest of the world fell away: a mind locking onto structure, decoding intent from form.
Her voice steadied. "Stone remembers name. Name remembers oath. Oath remembers maker."
She paused, brow furrowing.
"It's asking a question," she said.
Tomo couldn't resist. "Doors can ask questions now?"
"Dwarven ones can," she answered absently.
"That feels unfair."
Shion ignored him, leaning in. "It's not demanding strength or blood. It wants… recognition."
"Recognition of what?" Aaron asked.
Her eyes met his briefly. "Of the builders. Of what this place was."
A long beat passed.
She placed her palm flat against the cold stone.
The lantern flame dipped as though a draft had found it.
Nothing at first.
Then a deep hum rose—not from the door, but through the floor, through their bones. The grooves began to glow, soft amber threading through the script like waking embers.
Tomo grabbed Aaron's sleeve. "That's new."
The door didn't swing open. It reconfigured. Invisible seams appeared where none had been visible, segments of stone sliding back with oiled precision, retreating into the walls without a scrape.
Darkness waited beyond—not empty black, but depth. Vast, patient depth. Cold air flowed out, ancient and untouched.
No one moved for a moment. Even Tomo stayed quiet. Some thresholds demanded respect.
They crossed together.
The space beyond wasn't a corridor. It was a hall—enormous, the ceiling lost above the lantern's reach. Pillars thicker than palace towers rose into shadow, surfaces etched with angular reliefs that caught stray light like distant stars.
Dwarven architecture, unmistakable. But heavier than anything they knew. Built in an era when permanence wasn't an ideal—it was the baseline expectation.
Tomo exhaled slowly. "…Okay."
Shion couldn't speak yet. Her breath caught.
Even Xeno halted. Just for a second, but Aaron noticed.
True stillness settled over them. This place made the Diamond Palace feel like scaffolding—temporary, makeshift.
Aaron took a step forward. His boot echoed, the sound returning delayed, as though the hall had to consider whether to answer.
"This isn't a ruin," he said.
Shion shook her head. "No. It's preserved."
The walls told stories in endless carved bands: mountains parted by deliberate hands, cities rising straight from living rock, immense structures hanging suspended as though gravity had been negotiated rather than imposed.
Tomo squinted up. "Are those… buildings?"
Shion nodded slowly. "I think so."
"In the sky?"
She didn't answer right away. When she did, her voice was quieter. "Yes."
Aaron kept his expression neutral, but something turned over inside him. Not shock. A quiet alignment. He had seen orbital platforms drift above dead seas, stations circling failing stars. Humanity had once treated gravity as optional. Why not here? Why not earlier?
They moved deeper. The air stayed impossibly clean—no dust, no rot, no sign anything had ever been abandoned. Only absence. A place not lost to time, but set aside.
Shion drifted toward one wall, lantern raised, eyes scanning the carvings. "There's text here."
"Can you read it?" Aaron asked.
"Some."
Her fingers shook—not fear, but the weight of scale.
"This is older than modern language roots," she said.
Tomo crossed his arms. "Older how?"
She hesitated. "Pre-Imperial."
Xeno's voice cut through. "How far back?"
Shion looked up at the shadowed ceiling, then back at the script.
"First Age."
The words disappeared into the vastness.
Tomo didn't crack a joke this time.
Every child knew the First Age the way they knew bedtime tales—half myth, half warning. Civilizations that walked among clouds. Cities that floated on nothing. Rulers who bargained with stars.
Shion's voice dropped lower. "It talks about cities above the clouds."
Tomo barked a short laugh despite himself. "Yeah, okay."
"I'm serious."
"Floating cities?" He gestured upward. "Like… literally floating?"
"Yes."
"That's ridiculous."
Xeno remained silent.
Aaron stayed silent too.
Because deep down, it didn't sound ridiculous.
They stood beneath pillars raised by people who once treated the sky as another kind of ground.
Tomo finally let out a long breath. "…This place is insane."
"Yes," Aaron said quietly.
It was.
And they had only just begun.