The key pulsed in his hand — not with warmth, but with something deeper. Something older. Each beat echoed in his bones, like it was tuning him to a frequency only the dead remembered.
He followed Maya in silence.
Downward.
Beneath the city.
Beneath St. Icarus.
Beneath even the bones of Metronova itself.
Where the foundations rotted, the Order lived.
The walls here were carved from stone older than language, lined with symbols that writhed when he blinked. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became, until breathing felt like trying to drink ash.
They reached the Door at last.
Not one of wood or metal — but of obsidian, veined with silver lines that pulsed like veins beneath translucent skin.
There was no handle. Only a single, keyhole-shaped void.
Aarav raised the black key, and the moment it slid in — the door shuddered.
It didn't swing open.
It inhaled.
And then it was gone.
Beyond it lay the Catacombs — not a place, but a memory trapped in stone.
Columns of bone. Candles burning with black flame, casting no shadows.
And figures — twelve of them — waiting.
Hooded. Silent. Unblinking.
In the center stood Maya.
Mask in one hand.
Two knives in the other.
"One final step," she said.
"One final choice."
She laid the blades before him.
One of pure silver, gleaming in the candlelight.
Unblemished. Unburdened.
The other — blackened, pitted with age, stained by time and memory.
"Choose your path," she said.
Aarav reached for the silver first — instinct pulling him toward what once represented hope.
His fingers hovered.
But that wasn't who he was anymore.
Not after the chair.
Not after the photo.
Not after the mirror.
He chose the black blade.
Maya smiled behind her mask.
"Welcome, brother," she whispered.
She stepped forward and took his hand in hers.
Her grip was steady. Warm.
Then — a shallow cut across his palm.
Blood welled and spilled, crimson against the black knife.
It dripped onto the stone floor, into the carved symbol beneath him.
The serpent devouring its own tail.
The hooded figures began to chant.
Not words.
Truths.
They spoke to the marrow of him — naming things he'd never admitted to himself:
"He who seeks power must bleed for it.
He who would lead must first submit.
He who opens the door must never look away."
The blood soaked into the floor.
The symbol flared red.
And the stones trembled.
Aarav knelt — not in weakness, but in acceptance.
He recited the words Maya had taught him.
"By blood, by bone, by breath...
I awaken what sleeps within.
I bind myself to the Helix,
Not as servant.
Not as pawn.
But as heir."
The candles surged.
The chamber screamed in silence.
Something unseen passed through him — not like a wind, but like a memory being written into him.
And when it was done, the air was still.
The knives were gone.
So was the key.
But Aarav remained — changed, sealed, complete.
One of them.
Completely.