They reached the palace vaults at twilight on the day after the fourth moon.
The descent was long: spiral stairs carved into bedrock, torches guttering in damp air, the weight of centuries pressing down. Thorne led, mask reflecting flame like a ghost. Behind him came Elandor and Star, hands linked. Lila carried a lantern. Duchess Calera brought up the rear, sword drawn though no enemy had ever breached these depths.
At the bottom stood a single iron door, sealed with seven locks of decreasing size. Thorne produced seven keys from inside his robes, each older than the last. The door groaned open on hinges that had not moved in living memory.
Inside was a round chamber of black stone. In the center, on a pedestal of white marble, rested the Mirror of Hollow Sky.
It was not large: no bigger than a shield, framed in star-iron, surface dark as still water. No reflection showed in it yet.
Thorne spoke for the first time since the Cairn.
