Vaelorin didn't speak as he turned, his heavy robe trailing behind him like a river of midnight silk. Corvin followed silently, their footsteps echoing across the polished obsidian floor, each step falling like a whispered ritual. Instead of exiting through the great arched doors of the Triarch's hall, they veered toward a smaller, shadow wreathed door behind the central throne. Half concealed by embroidered banners depicting the Dark Mother's trials and triumphs, it shimmered faintly with old magic.
The darkwood door bore ancient runes etched so finely they seemed like veins in the grain. As they drew closer, the sigils pulsed with awareness, briefly illuminating the narrow alcove. Vaelorin pressed a single hand to the surface, and without a word, the door opened inward, exhaling a breath of cold, ward-heavy air.
