The dome gave out quietly.
Not from fire. Not from force. From absence.
One moment, the chandelier still turned, suspended by six converging ley-thread lines that pulsed with Meridia's breath. The next, it flickered—just once—and fell straight through the air like it had been dismissed.
It landed without sound. No crash. Just a muted collapse of shape into dust.
Then the ceiling folded in on itself. Spellsteel bracers snapped like tired bones. Mirrored pillars leaned inward, groaning like a cathedral remembering how to die. Stones dropped in slow motion, crashing without echo.
Velra didn't look up.
She was already walking.
Beneath the guildhall, the vault tunnels stretched long and old. The stone here bore no markings, no enchantment grids. It predated Meridia's skyward years—etched deep with silence and built for collapse. Down here, everything had been layered twelvefold: memory-locked, soul-bound, flame-sealed.
None of it mattered now.
"Seal behind us," she said.
