We traveled in silence.
Down the old western trail—one not charted on any modern map of the Academy.
Roderick led the way, torchlight casting jagged shadows against moss-slicked stones. Two guards from Internal Affairs trailed behind, clutching relic-class blades like prayer beads.
We passed beyond the barriers. I felt the pulse of severed runes—wards that had been chewed through, not dispelled.
Whatever breached this place didn't bypass security.
It devoured it.
The tomb was not a structure.
It was a wound.
Carved into the cliffside like an open mouth, its entrance bled a dull, golden mist that smelled faintly of silver and vinegar.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the Grimoire in my coat burned against my ribs—eager, terrified, hungry.
Inside, the air changed.
Heavier. Older. Aware.
I could feel it watching me—not the tomb, not a ghost, but something deeper. The memory of a man too dangerous to be remembered.
