The air shifted the moment they crossed the fissure’s edge.

  Matrim landed hard on the uneven stone below, knees flexing to absorb the impact. The light above—the pulsing red glow of the corrupted nexus—dimmed quickly, swallowed by the darkness that cloaked the chamber beneath. Narianna followed close behind, rolling smoothly to her feet with practiced grace, her blade already in hand.

  The space they’d dropped into was vast, silent, and old in a way that made the air itself feel heavier.

  Leyline roots—thicker than those above—hung like veins from the cavern ceiling, many of them pulsing with a faint, irregular light. Their glow cast distorted shadows along carved stone walls that lined the edges of the ancient corridor. Unlike the nexus chamber, these carvings were unfamiliar, not elven, not Sunwell-bound. The architecture felt wrong—too sharp in some places, too organic in others, as if the stone itself had grown rather than been built.

  Matrim turned slowly in place, his breath visible in the chilled air. “This doesn’t feel like it belongs under Silvermoon.”

  Narianna sheathed her blade momentarily, brushing her fingers across a low wall etched with a circular sigil that shimmered faintly when touched.

  “It doesn’t,” she said. “These markings... they’re pre-Guardian. Pre-Sunwell. I’ve never seen them before.”

  The floor beneath them was cracked and uneven, sections swallowed by time and collapsed debris. Dust rose with each step as they pressed forward, shadows curling at the edges of their lantern’s reach. A faint hum resonated through the stone—not the leyline pulse they were used to, but something else. A resonance that came in waves, almost like breathing.

  Matrim crouched beside a section of the floor where the roots pierced through what looked like a sealed doorframe. The stone was smooth, unmarred by age, unlike everything else around it.

  He placed a hand against it. “It’s warm.”

  Narianna frowned, stepping beside him. “Magic?”

  “More than that,” Matrim muttered. “It feels... aware.”

  As if in answer, a low vibration rippled beneath their boots.

  They both drew their weapons at once, spinning toward the source of the sound.

  A soft scuff—boot against stone.

  From deeper down the corridor, a figure emerged. One of the Court agents, cloak torn and blood trailing down one arm. His veil was partially lowered, revealing a gaunt face lined with silver tattoos that glowed faintly in the dark. His breath came in hitches, and one hand clutched a small crystal pulsing with corrupted energy.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Narianna raised her blade. “Don’t move.”

  But the agent didn’t run. He didn’t attack. Instead, he stumbled forward, half-collapsing against a pillar. His eyes, feverish and wide, locked on Matrim.

  “You shouldn’t have come down here,” the man rasped.

  Matrim stepped forward cautiously. “What’s beneath this place?”

  The agent let out a hoarse, bitter laugh. “Not a what. A when.”

  Matrim exchanged a look with Narianna. “Explain.”

  The man’s hand spasmed as he tried to lift the corrupted crystal. “We thought we could contain it. Channel it. But it’s... it’s waking. And it remembers.”

  “Remembers what?” Narianna asked, voice cold.

  The agent looked at them both, blood dripping from his fingers. “The beginning.”

  Before either of them could question further, the man let out a sudden gasp. His body convulsed, and the crystal in his hand shattered with a piercing shriek. A wave of corrupted energy blasted outward, slamming them both off their feet.

  Matrim hit the wall hard, stars bursting across his vision. When he rolled to his knees, ears ringing, the agent was gone—nothing but a smear of blood and dust in his place.

  “Dead,” Narianna muttered, staggering upright.

  “More like... consumed,” Matrim said, watching the last wisp of red magic swirl away into the air.

  They steadied themselves in the silence that followed, but something was different now. The temperature had dropped further, and the rhythmic pulse from deeper down had grown louder.

  “It’s not just a chamber,” Matrim said slowly. “It’s a gate.”

  “To what?” Narianna asked.

  They didn’t have time to answer. A low groan of shifting stone echoed from deeper within the ruin.

  Matrim’s breath caught as a massive set of doors came into view around the next bend—taller than any structure in the Bastion, covered in etched spirals and worn metallic symbols that shimmered when touched by the rootlight.

  The doors were slightly ajar.

  The air that seeped through the crack between them felt ancient, and wrong.

  Something was stirring beyond.

  Matrim stepped forward, drawn like iron to a magnet. “This is what they were after,” he murmured. “Not the leyline, not the nexus. This.”

  Narianna moved beside him, her expression unreadable. “The council doesn’t know this place exists.”

  “They can’t know,” Matrim said. “They’d collapse the entire Garden just to keep it buried.”

  His hand hovered near the gap in the doors.

  And then he heard it—just beneath the humming silence.

  A whisper.

  Not in words, not exactly—but in intent. In recognition.

  Something beyond the door knew his name.

  He stumbled back instinctively, heart hammering.

  “You heard it too,” Narianna said quietly.

  He nodded.

  A long pause settled between them.

  “We need to tell the High Lady,” Narianna finally said, her voice tight.

  “Or seal it ourselves,” Matrim said, though even as he said it, he didn’t believe they could.

  The ground beneath them vibrated again—stronger this time. Dust trickled from the ceiling, and somewhere behind them, a section of the tunnel collapsed, cutting off their retreat.

  “We don’t have time,” she said. “If the Court’s already deeper—”

  A pulse of energy flared from beyond the door.

  Not a violent one—but a beckoning.

  Something within the gate was waking.

  And it wanted them to open the door.