The corridor pinched one final time, then spilled him into a broad chamber so abruptly that Rodion halted on instinct, weight easing to his heels. The ceiling arched high above, draped in roots that hung like coarse curtains. Here the floor tiles changed from rough cavern stone to polished flagstones, each square inlaid with faded copper that caught the distant glow of lumen-moss. In the center of the room lay a single circular pressure plate, big enough for a carriage wheel, polished clean of dust as if something—or someone—had recently swept it.
Around the plate, etched glyphs fanned outward in a precise ring: stylized scenes carved into the stone like a frieze from an ancient codex. The carvings were shallow, and age had worn most lines to soft grooves. But as Rodion's visor cycled through spectral modes, subtle pulses of dormant mana flickered, outlining the designs in fitful embers.
The chamber felt hushed, the air pressed flat, as though expecting a note to be struck.
