Emily’s hand pressed against the cold stone.
The door was massive—carved from the same dark granite as the Gate, veined with silver that pulsed beneath her touch. She felt it again, the tether that had been stirring inside her since her time in the Veil. It thrummed now, alive, answering something just beyond the stone.
“She’s in there,” she whispered.
Brant and Vaera stood behind her, tense. Mira, the scholar, traced ancient symbols along the walls with trembling fingers. “This place… it shouldn’t exist. The records said the Rootwell was myth. A punishment the Seers only whispered about.”
Emily didn’t look away from the door. “She was never a myth. They buried her alive. My sister. My blood.”
At her words, the rune above the arch flared—then slowly dimmed.
A rumble vibrated through
