The staircase descended into a throat of obsidian and forgotten history, spiraling so deep that the air grew heavy with the scent of damp earth and stale incense. Malphas leaned heavily on Lyra, his movements labored. The act of uploading the memories had left his body brittle, the rapid aging a physical toll for the miracle he had performed. Lyra supported his weight, her eyes fixed on the darkness below, where the ancient stone glowed with a faint, pulsing vein of blue light.
"This isn't just an entrance," Malphas murmured, his voice sounding like dry leaves. "It’s a root. Every city, every kingdom that has ever stood in this realm, every version of it, has been built upon this foundation. We weren't just fighting a machine. We were living on top of a tomb."
As they reached the bottom
