The descent grew colder.
Not in temperature, but in presence. The deeper Ian moved into the Maw, the less real the world seemed.
It was like walking through the spine of a memory discarded by time. His boots scraped along stone that drank sound, drank breath, drank him.
The path narrowed, then widened again without warning, opening into a massive antechamber.
Here, the stone had changed. What once was jagged and volcanic had become smooth, sculpted—intentional.
A circle of faded writings surrounded a single colossal door, wrought entirely of slate-gray stone, seamless and unyielding.
The scroll in Ian's hand beat again.
"Where light once fell upon the mirrorless gate, now only hunger resides."
"The vault opens only to the one who leaves part of themselves behind."
Ian exhaled slowly.
The door towered over him like a giant's tombstone.
Carvings wrapped its surface in unreadable script—language older than any mortal tongue. There were no handles, no mechanisms.
