The narrow door at the end of the corridor had been sealed with black iron bands and a line of faded scripture carved into the stone above it.
Zinnia recognised none of the words.
That disturbed her more than the blood.
She had spent much of her childhood translating forgotten Lycan texts beneath Blackstone Palace, where the oldest language had been preserved in temple walls, burial markers, and fragments of prayer older than the Raventhorn dynasty. The symbols above the door resembled that script, yet their shapes had been deliberately distorted, as though someone wanted them to appear sacred without allowing their meaning to be understood.
The fresh blood disappeared beneath the threshold.
Cassian approached first, sword still drawn. “No one opens it until the station is secured.”
