At the bottom, a long horizontal corridor stretched into pitch black. Skeletons of wooden crates lined the walls. The sound of dripping water echoed.
They moved as a unit—Orla in front, Stanley to her right, Elias to her left, Aster behind, Jakob at the center.
After twenty steps, they reached a heavy iron door, its surface mottled with rust and corrosion. A keyhole sat beneath a carved eye motif.
Orla lifted the ornate key from Aster’s hand and slid it home.
It turned with a grinding scream of metal on stone.
Stanley pushed the door open.
Inside was a chamber carved into living rock, torches flickering along the walls. At the center stood an altar, black stone inscribed with Clara’s handwriting in spirals:
“Here lies the truth. Here flows the bloodline. Here ends the lie.”
Orla st
