The stairwell spiraled downward into cold breath and candle smoke. The torches burned blue—steady, listening flames that did not waver as mortal fire should.
No one spoke.
The deeper they descended, the heavier the air became, layered with iron and old magic. Talia felt it press against her ribs, ancient and aware. Her wolf stirred beneath her skin—not in fear, but in recognition.
The steps ended at a wrought-iron gate blackened by age and spellwork. Beyond it lay a single chamber carved from obsidian rock, smooth and circular, as if the mountain itself had opened an eye.
Pale moonlight bled through a narrow vent above.
A woman sat within that light.
Her hair was white as frost, her skin pale, her eyes a sharp silver-grey that missed nothing. She looked neither imprisoned nor broken—
