The Quiet Zone announced itself by what it took away.
Sound thinned first—not vanished, but softened, as if the air itself had grown dense enough to swallow sharp edges. Footsteps no longer echoed. Metal no longer rang. Even breathing felt muted, intimate, something you had to listen for instead of being assaulted by.
They stepped into it cautiously.
The chamber was wide and low, its ceiling fractured but stable, stone ribs overlapping in a way that suggested collapse had been considered and rejected. Pale light filtered in from nowhere obvious, diffused and steady. No veins of red pulsed here. No pressure sat behind the eyes.
The floor did not watch.
That alone made Caelum uneasy.
Seraphine stopped just inside the threshold, lifting one hand slowly.
Nothing reacted.
She exhaled. "This is a true Quiet Zone."
Aurelian would have laughed at that once.
The thought cut sharper than Caelum expected.
They spread out instinctively—not to defend, but to exist. Mireya leaned against a stone support, rolling her shoulders carefully. Ysara sat cross-legged near the center of the chamber, fingers idly tracing patterns in dust. Iscahrel knelt, not in prayer this time, but exhaustion, his censer resting beside him untouched.
Caelum lowered himself onto a broken slab of stone and set Red Amendment across his knees.
The weapon was still.
Not dormant.
Resting.
He stared at it for a long moment, then looked away.
Mireya noticed.
"You're holding it like it might bite you," she said.
He huffed quietly. "It already has."
She didn't smile. She crossed the space between them and sat opposite him, close enough that the edge of her knee brushed his boot.
"Show me," she said.
Caelum hesitated.
Then he turned his forearm slightly.
The armor there had grown thin but distinct—black steel layered like overlapping scales, fused seamlessly to flesh. It wasn't painful anymore, but it wasn't neutral either. It pulsed faintly, responding to his attention.
Mireya studied it without touching. "It's adapting," she said. "Not just protecting."
He nodded. "Feels like it's learning me."
She considered that. "Or correcting you."
Across the chamber, Ysara snorted softly. "Everything down here corrects you."
Seraphine didn't contradict her.
She stood near the edge of the Quiet Zone, eyes half-lidded, testing the boundary with small movements. Each time she stepped too close to the edge, the air subtly resisted, encouraging her back without force.
"A permission space," she said. "Not a gift."
"Still counts," Ysara replied. "Hell doesn't give many of those."
Iscahrel shifted, wincing as he pressed a hand to his side. The wound from the shard still bled sluggishly, the echo having punished him more than the attacker ever could have.
Mireya noticed immediately. She rose and crossed to him, kneeling without a word.
"Let me see," she said.
He hesitated. "It's ugly."
She met his eyes. "So is everything here. Move."
He did.
The cut was deep, blackened at the edges where the echo had burned through flesh unevenly. Mireya grimaced—not in disgust, but calculation.
She reached for a strip of cloth.
"You don't have to," Iscahrel murmured.
"I know," she said. "That's why I am."
Her fingers were careful, precise, cleaning the wound with practiced efficiency. Iscahrel sucked in a sharp breath but didn't pull away.
"Faith help at all?" Ysara asked lightly.
Iscahrel smiled weakly. "Faith keeps me from panicking. That's something."
Seraphine turned from the boundary. "Panic kills faster than steel," she said. "You're still here. That means something."
The words landed heavier than praise.
Caelum watched the interaction quietly, something loosening in his chest he hadn't realized had tightened.
This was not a truce.
It was proximity without violence.
That mattered.
After a time—how long, Caelum couldn't tell—Seraphine nodded toward Red Amendment. "You should practice," she said. "Not fighting. Control."
Caelum frowned. "Here?"
She gestured around them. "The floor allows it."
He stood slowly, lifting the katana.
The blade felt different here—less eager, less demanding. When he moved it experimentally, the hidden daggers along its edges flexed once, then settled.
He took a breath and stepped into a stance.
Not one he remembered learning.
One the weapon suggested.
His grip adjusted subtly. His shoulders aligned. His weight shifted without conscious thought.
Mireya watched closely.
"Again," she said.
He moved.
A slow, controlled arc. No speed. No power.
The blade hummed faintly.
Pain flickered behind his eyes—sharp, minimal.
Feedback.
He adjusted.
The pain vanished.
Ysara leaned forward, interested now. "It's training you."
"No," Caelum said quietly. "It's refusing to carry my mistakes."
Seraphine's lips curved faintly. "Good."
He practiced for a long time.
Not swings.
Transitions.
How to stop mid-motion. How to withdraw cleanly. How to let the weapon finish a movement instead of forcing it.
Every error came with pain.
Every correction came with silence.
When he finally lowered the blade, sweat dampened his hairline and his arms trembled—not from exhaustion, but restraint.
Mireya stood and took her own weapon in hand.
She mirrored him.
Her movements were smaller, more economical. Where his weapon instructed, hers responded. The echo touched her once—sharp, cutting—and she adjusted instantly, jaw tightening.
They practiced together without striking.
Learning distance.
Learning timing.
Learning when not to move.
Ysara watched them like a cat watching birds. "You're bonding," she said. "With steel. With each other."
Iscahrel shifted, pushing himself upright with effort. "Is that wise?"
Seraphine answered before anyone else could. "It's inevitable."
The Quiet Zone held them.
Not forever.
But long enough.
Eventually, fatigue settled in—not crushing, but honest. Mireya wiped her blade clean and sheathed it. Caelum rested Red Amendment against the stone again.
They sat closer now.
No one commented on it.
Ysara broke the silence at last. "When we leave here," she said, "the floor will punish us harder."
Seraphine nodded. "Because we rested."
Iscahrel swallowed. "Because we connected."
Caelum looked at them—really looked.
At Mireya's steady calm. Ysara's sharp curiosity. Seraphine's unyielding authority. Iscahrel's fragile endurance.
This wasn't a party.
It wasn't trust.
It was choice.
"I don't know how many floors we survive," Caelum said. "But I know this—whatever waits past the next door is counting us as a unit now."
The Quiet Zone pulsed once.
A warning.
Or an acknowledgment.
The silence began to thin.
Sound returned at the edges.
The floor was done allowing.
Seraphine stood. "Weapons ready."
Mireya rose beside Caelum, close enough to feel.
Ysara smiled faintly. "Let's go disappoint something."
They stepped out together.
Behind them, the Quiet Zone collapsed softly—stone sealing without violence.
Ahead—
A colored glow waited.
And the skulls were already watching.