Zane turned around.
The Cathedral of Eternal Silence didn’t simply harness light. It weaponised it.
The maintenance corridor surrounding them was a knife-bright wound carved into the fortress. Polished white ceramic and translucent crystal formed the walls, ceiling, and floor.
There were no corners. No recesses. No shadows at all.
Light bled out of the very structure—a harsh, shadowless glare that stripped away depth and left everything flat, overexposed.
The air felt wrong. Dry to the point of pain, with a sharp tang of ozone and burned incense.
No moisture, no dust, nothing soft.
Wren squinted, shoulders hunching.
“It hurts to keep my eyes open,” she muttered, dragging the collar of Zane’s coat up over her face. “There’s nowhere to hide in here, Zane. It’s a fishbowl made of
