They did not speak as they left the chamber.
The corridor beyond was wider than necessary, its stone walls smooth and undecorated, as if Hell had deliberately stripped the space of anything that might distract from what they carried with them. Their footsteps returned slowly now—sound reintroduced with caution, like a privilege being tested.
No one rushed.
No one lagged.
They moved as if keeping the same pace might somehow keep the memories aligned, prevent them from drifting apart in ways the floor could exploit.
Caelum felt wrong inside his own body.
Not shaken. Not panicked. Something quieter and worse. His hands were steady, his breathing controlled, but the space behind his eyes felt… occupied. Like the memory hadn't settled yet, hadn't chosen where to live.
Red Amendment hung at his side, heavy and silent.
It did not hum.
It did not react.
It had been there. It remembered.
The corridor opened into a broad concourse that sloped gently downward, its floor etched with shallow grooves that caught the light just enough to be seen. The air was cooler here. Cleaner. Almost normal.
That made it harder to breathe.
Seraphine stopped first.
She didn't signal. She didn't raise a hand. She simply stopped walking, and the others followed without thinking.
They stood there for a long moment.
Then Iscahrel sat down.
It wasn't dramatic. He didn't collapse or cry out. He simply lowered himself to the stone as if his legs had finally run out of reasons to keep him upright. His censer slipped from his fingers and clinked softly against the floor.
No echo came.
That alone told Caelum this place allowed stillness.
"I need a moment," Iscahrel said quietly.
No one told him to hurry.
Mireya leaned against the wall opposite him, arms crossed loosely, eyes unfocused. Ysara paced once, then stopped herself, planting her feet deliberately.
Seraphine remained standing, posture perfect, eyes forward.
Caelum watched Iscahrel closely.
The man's lips moved, but no sound came out at first. He tried again, voice low and careful. "I've seen people die before."
No one interrupted.
"I've prayed over bodies. I've held hands while they went cold." His throat worked. "That wasn't dying."
Silence answered him.
"That was maintenance," he finished.
Ysara sat beside him, slower this time, movements uncharacteristically deliberate. "You don't have to define it," she said. "Not yet."
"I do," he replied. "If I don't, it'll define me."
Caelum felt that settle somewhere deep and uncomfortable.
Mireya spoke without looking up. "You're not broken."
Iscahrel laughed.
It was a soft, breathless sound that stopped halfway through. "I don't think that's the metric anymore."
That earned a glance from Seraphine.
"Broken isn't failure," she said evenly. "It's feedback."
Ysara snorted quietly. "Everything is feedback here."
They rested there longer than they should have.
Time felt different again—not stretched, not compressed. Just… watchful.
Caelum took the opportunity to test himself.
He loosened his grip on Red Amendment and rolled his shoulders once, then again. His muscles responded immediately, obedient. No shaking. No delayed reactions.
That worried him more than weakness would have.
He closed his eyes briefly.
The image came back instantly.
Not the pain.
The waiting.
Caelum opened his eyes again and focused on the grooves in the stone at his feet until his breathing evened out.
Nearby, Mireya flexed her fingers slowly, one by one, as if checking they still belonged to her. When she finished, she pressed her palm flat against the wall and held it there, grounding herself.
Ysara watched her for a moment, then looked away.
Seraphine finally moved.
She turned toward the downward slope and studied it carefully, eyes tracing lines only she seemed able to see. "We're close," she said.
"To what?" Iscahrel asked.
"The next threshold."
The floor answered for her.
A low vibration rolled through the concourse, not sharp enough to startle, but strong enough to be felt in the bones. Far ahead, the passage widened again, light shifting from dull red to something darker, richer.
Purple.
Not bright.
Deep.
Bruised.
They rose together this time without discussion.
As they approached, the air thickened subtly—not heavy, but dense, like walking through memory instead of space. Caelum felt pressure settle behind his eyes again, familiar but sharper now.
The chamber beyond was smaller than the others they'd seen.
Intimate.
The door stood at its center.
It was taller than the false door had been, its surface polished to a dark sheen that reflected torchlight like oil. Veins of purple light ran through it, pulsing slowly, steadily, like a heartbeat.
Above it were four skulls.
All non-human.
Elongated, smooth, their features twisted in ways that resisted easy interpretation. Their eye sockets burned with the same purple glow as the door itself.
Ysara exhaled slowly. "Mental pressure," she said. "That color."
"Or perception," Mireya added.
Seraphine stepped closer, stopping just short of the threshold. "This door doesn't want blood," she said. "It wants compliance."
Iscahrel swallowed. "With what?"
The skulls shifted.
Not physically.
Attention shifted.
Caelum felt it—something pressing gently but insistently against his thoughts, like a hand testing the surface of water for depth.
A whisper brushed the edge of his awareness.
Not words.
A suggestion.
You could stop.
He clenched his jaw.
Mireya's breath hitched beside him, just once.
Ysara laughed suddenly.
It was short. Sharp. Wrong.
Everyone turned to her.
She covered her mouth immediately, eyes wide. "I—" She shook her head. "It told me a joke."
Seraphine's expression darkened. "What kind?"
"The kind that only works if you believe it," Ysara replied. "About how much easier it would be to let someone else open the door."
The floor pulsed.
The skulls brightened.
Caelum understood then: this door wouldn't be opened by strength or sacrifice.
It would be opened by consensus.
By agreement.
By choosing to think the same thought at the same time.
And that meant doubt was the enemy.
Iscahrel took a half-step back without realizing it.
The purple light flared.
The floor corrected him—not violently, just enough to make his head ring, his thoughts scatter like startled birds.
He steadied himself, breathing hard. "It's already inside," he said.
Seraphine nodded. "That's the test."
They stood there, five figures facing a door that did not threaten them openly, that did not promise pain.
That was what made it dangerous.
Caelum looked at the skulls.
Four.
Not the worst.
Not forgiving.
He tightened his grip on Red Amendment.
"We don't open this yet," he said.
Seraphine looked at him sharply. "Why?"
"Because it wants us to," he replied. "And because we're still bleeding where it can't see."
Mireya nodded slowly. "We need another Quiet Zone. Another anchor."
Ysara exhaled, relief flickering across her face before she masked it. "Agreed."
The door did not react.
That was its warning.
As they turned away, the purple light dimmed—but did not fade.
Behind them, the skulls continued to watch.
Learning.
Counting.
And somewhere deep in Hell, something adjusted its expectations.