[POV: Ezekiel]
He left before night could finish falling.
The key did not glow.
It pulled.
Every time he held it loosely, it tilted in his palm like a compass with no cardinal directions—only intent.
Down.
Then left.
Then down again.
The spiral staircase beneath the East Tower was never listed in palace records.
But he found it anyway.
The air changed after twenty-two steps.
From stale.
To damp.
To remembering.
---
The stones down here were older than Quinsley's official founding date.
He could see it in the seams—how the angles refused to conform, how the glyphs had been scraped off rather than worn away.
Someone had tried to make this place forgettable.
But not forgotten.
---
At the bottom was a door.
Not hidden.
Just... unimportant.
The kind of door servants would walk past and never ask about.
Unpainted.
Rusted hinges.
No handle.
No ward.
But something in the air said: Here. This one.
Ezekiel pressed the key to it.
Nothing happened.
Then—
He heard a voice.
Not Azrael's.
Not Ilhera's.
His own.
Not now.
Not recent.
A memory he never lived.
> "Open."
The door clicked.
Swung inward.
Stone dust fell like old snowfall.
---
[POV: The Palace – Conceptual Response Echo (System Layer)]
> :: Unauthorized pathway engaged
:: Inert key object registering Conceptal spike
:: Cross-reference blood signature: Match confirmed
:: Lineage: Saelin Quinsley [Dossier: Sealed]
:: Warning: VESSEL IN MOTION
> Initiate containment protocol?
> …
> ACCESS DENIED.
The Law is watching.
> Await judgment.
---
[POV: Ezekiel]
The passage was not long.
It bent sharply—twice—and then dropped.
Not stairs.
A slope.
He moved quietly.
Every step echoed like it was walking backward in time.
At the end of the passage was another door.
Carved from mirror-stone.
It shimmered faintly.
The same material Ilhera's shard had been carved from.
Only this was untouched.
Perfect.
Waiting.
And above it, engraved in clean, ancient script:
> The Law Remembers What You Forget.
---
He raised the knife.
Not to cut.
Just to show it.
The mirror flared briefly.
A line of light traced down the center.
The door opened without sound.
And beyond it—
not a tunnel.
A vault.
Circular.
No furniture.
No relics.
Just a single platform surrounded by silent black water, where no torch would stay lit.
The moment he stepped inside, his body hummed.
Not with magic.
With certainty.
This place was older than the palace.
Older than the throne.
It knew him.
---
He stepped to the platform.
The door sealed behind him.
No handle.
No way back.
Only forward.
He waited.
The silence waited.
And then—
From beneath the platform, a single word rose in perfect, echoed resonance:
> "Speak."