The secret passages of the palace were narrow, winding veins of cold stone that smelled of centuries of stagnant air and rat droppings. Above them, muffled through feet of solid rock, came the sound of the palace falling. The roar of the mob entering the main gates sounded like distant thunder.
Revas led the way, his hands glowing with a faint violet light to guide them through the crushing darkness. Mirabelle followed, her hand on her sword hilt, though there was nothing to fight but her own failures.
They descended a final, spiral staircase and burst through a rusted iron door.
They stopped cold.
They weren't alone in the crypt of the old Kings.
The vast, circular chamber was lit by hundreds of black candles placed on the stone sarcophagi of Mirabelle's ancestors. The air was thick with wax smoke and a familiar, cloying sandalwood incense.
Waiting in the center of the room, framed by the tombs, were two figures.
