The stairs were narrow, carved into the living rock. There was no handrail. Valeria descended slowly, keeping her feet close to the wall where the stone was less polished. Every step echoed in the cramped space.
After twenty steps, she reached the first corridor. Torches hung in iron brackets every ten paces, their flames casting long, flickering shadows. The air was cold and damp, smelling of saltpeter and mold.
Valeria took the left corridor. She passed heavy metal doors—storerooms, archives, isolation cells for priests undergoing purification. From one came the muffled sound of sobbing. She did not stop.
After a minute, she reached the second descent: steep, spiral stairs leading deeper into the earth. Here, the torches were sparse—every twenty paces instead of ten. The darkness thickened.
The second circle of the dungeons was quieter. There were no storerooms here, only cells. Behind some doors, breathing could be heard; behind others, nothing.
Valeria counted her steps. Thirty-five to the third descent. She stopped before it. Narrow iron stairs vanished into total darkness. There were no torches, only a dense, viscous black.
She pulled a small brass flashlight from her pocket and turned the dial. A weak, yellowish glow spilled onto the stone steps, reaching no further than three paces down.
Valeria descended.
The third circle of the dungeons was different.
Here, the stone of the walls was not smooth. It was rough, porous, covered in white crystalline deposits—dried salt leached from the moisture, or perhaps something else.
The air was denser, heavier. Valeria felt it pressing against her lungs with every breath. It smelled metallic and acrid—chemical. Like blood mixed with vinegar and sulfur.
The flashlight illuminated the narrow corridor. The walls were close, so close that Valeria could have touched both simultaneously by spreading her arms. She did not try. She did not want to touch that stone.
She walked slowly, counting her steps. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. The corridor turned left, then right. There were no branches, only a single trail.
She stopped.
From ahead, somewhere in the dark, a sound reached her.
Heavy breathing. Wet, rasping, with a gurgle at the end of every exhale. Like lungs filled with water.
Valeria tightened her grip on the hilt of the Severer. She felt the chill of the steel through the fabric of her cloak. Twelve inches; two kilograms.
She moved forward.
After ten paces, she saw the cell.
The door was massive, made of iron, with a small eye-level window. Heavy chains of black metal hung around the frame. A black iron artifact—an alloy that dampened Ether and blocked spells.
The sound of breathing came from behind that door.
Valeria stepped closer and raised her light. It shone weakly, but it was enough.
She looked through the window.
The cell was small—five paces by five. The walls were made of the same rough stone. The floor was covered in something dark and sticky. Blood? No. Denser; black.
In the center, chained to the wall, a man knelt.
A priest, or something that had once been one.
His robe was torn. The skin on his back and shoulders had split in several places. From the exposed flesh, thick black veins protruded like tree roots pushing through the earth. They pulsed slowly, in rhythm with his breathing.
His hair fell over his face, but through the tangled veil, Valeria could see one exposed cheek.
The skin was pale, almost translucent. Beneath it, a network of fine black veins branched out like cracks in glass. His right eye was open.
The white had changed color—it was yellow. The pupil was blown, occupying nearly the entire oval.
He was looking straight at the door.
Straight at Valeria.
His lips moved, but no human sound emerged—only a wet, bubbling rasp.
Then he began to laugh.
Quietly. Deeply. Hoarsely.
Valeria took a step back. Her hand tightened on the hilt of the Severer. The metal was cold, hard, and real.
She breathed slowly, controlling the rhythm: a four-second inhale, a four-second exhale.
The man in the cell stopped laughing and bowed his head. The chains rattled softly.
Valeria stood motionless, watching through the window, waiting.
After a long moment of silence, the priest raised his head again.
His eyes were different now.
Both were yellow, both blown wide.
And both were staring at her.
Not like a human, but like something studying movement, searching for weakness, waiting for a mistake.
Valeria turned away from the door and leaned her back against the cold stone of the wall. She released the air from her lungs.
Twelve inches of steel; two kilograms of weight.
It would be enough. It had to be.
She pulled one of the vacuum grenade vials from her pocket. The glass felt warm in her hand.
She waited for three long heartbeats.
Then she turned back to the door and reached for the latch.