Lyra slips through the narrow gap and emerges into a vaulted cistern below Veyrholt. Cold water glints in black channels, and the air tastes of stone, rust, and old spellwork.

Pale witchfire trembles far ahead, reflected in broken columns and a collapsed stair. The sound of dripping water answers like a slow heartbeat.

At the center of the chamber, a hooded figure kneels beside a sealed drain ringed with ash. Their hands move carefully over runes scraped into the masonry.

The hooded figure rises at once, shoulders tight with alarm, one hand drifting toward a bone-white charm at their throat. Beneath the cowl, their face remains hidden, but their stance says they are ready to bargain or bolt.