The tunnels below Velith had never been meant for footsteps.
They were arteries — old, rust-colored veins that once carried Mirra through the city's bones. Now they dripped and whispered, reacting to the presence of those who didn't belong.
The Ninefold walked in silence.
Mael at the front, his coat brushing against stone slick with condensation. Behind him came Raal, every step deliberate; his hands glowed faintly as his threads floated like nervous thoughts. The twins followed — one missing an arm but walking as if the loss were an inconvenience. Then Lirra, silent as her own shadow, and behind her the boy, cradling new spheres he hadn't dared to test yet.
No one spoke. The tunnels were already full of whispers.
Overhead, the Guild's machinery groaned, its rhythms struggling to find time again. Down here, everything pulsed with a different beat — slower, older, heavier.
At the next fork, Mael stopped. His reflection shimmered in a patch of wet metal, delayed by a heartbeat. He stared at it briefly, as if confirming that it still followed the rules.
"This is where we split," he said.
No one asked why — they already knew.
"Kest, you take the north vents. Draw the patrols. Make it loud."
Kest nodded, cracking his knuckles. The sound echoed too long.
"The rest," Mael continued, "with me."
The silver-haired woman adjusted her gloves, her expression unreadable. "You'll need an opening in the first ring."
"I'll make one," Mael said. He looked at her, then at the others. "Keep your rhythm clean. No improvisation. No glory."
That last part was for the boy, who nodded quickly and tried to look fearless.
They moved again. The air thinned, replaced by the metallic tang of stored Mirra. Pipes glowed faintly under the grime, like veins remembering old power.
As they descended deeper, a faint sound began — not machinery, not wind. A low hum that matched the beating of their hearts. Raal felt it first, his threads tightening of their own accord.
"Feels like the city's still alive," he muttered.
Mael didn't answer. He didn't have to.
At the lowest corridor, they came upon the outer Vault doors — relic metal fused with time and runes that had long lost meaning. The walls curved inward, etched with patterns that hurt to look at too long.
Lirra whistled low. "Pretty, for a tomb."
Mael stepped forward. He pressed his palm against the center seal. The Aethern Dial under his sleeve responded — a thin blue light crawling up his wrist, tracing lines beneath the skin.
The runes on the door flared awake.
For a second, everyone's reflections blinked out of sync.
Then came the sound — a deep, aching exhale, like the city breathing in after centuries of silence.
The Vault opened.
Mael looked back once at the others. "Stay sharp," he said softly. "Everything that sleeps down here does so for a reason."
Then he walked in first.
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