The descent into the Oakhaven catacombs was a journey into the city's forgotten ribcage. The air here was heavy, smelling of damp earth, centuries of stagnant history, and that unmistakable, metallic tang of the Architect's lingering corruption. Malphas walked with a steady, limping gait, his hand clutching the obsidian shard. It served as a compass now, its pulsing violet light intensifying the deeper they ventured.
"The architecture changes," Lyra whispered, her voice bouncing off the low, arched ceilings. She held a lantern high, its amber glow struggling to pierce the oppressive gloom. "These tunnels were not built by human hands. Look at the masonry."
She pointed to the walls. Where the surface city was granite and brick, these depths were lined with a smooth, black glass that seem
