The door was not ancient.
That was the first wrong thing about it.
Anna stood before it with Lexus at her side, the ruins falling away behind them as if ashamed to be seen near it. Stone columns crumbled into dust the closer they approached, their history dissolving under the pressure of something newer, sharper—unapologetic.
The door was smooth, unmarked iron, set upright in empty air. No wall. No frame. Just a threshold insisting on meaning.
It did not glow. It did not hum.
It waited.
“This wasn’t here before,” Anna said, though she knew the truth even as she spoke.
“It was,” Lexus replied quietly. “Just not for us.”
She reached out—and stopped inches from the surface.
Her magic recoiled.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
Behind the door, something shifted. Not sound. Not movement
