Fog hung heavy in the tomb, sharp with static, gritty with time. Downward she moved, one slow descent into stone coils below - each tread met by pulse after pulse of crimson light.
"Don't be a martyr, Elara," Vivienne said, her voice echoing off the granite walls. "Martyrs are just people who didn't have a better plan. Give me the ring, and I’ll let Silas crawl out of here. He’s already a dead man walking; I don't need his blood on my shoes."
Her gaze found Silas again. Leaning on the machine, he sat still, sight distant yet fingers locked tight around the stack of pages. A slow shake of his head followed - urgency without sound, pushing her toward escape.
"I have a better plan," Elara whispered.
A gun pointed not at her mom, but at the heavy-duty power unit wired by her dad into the
