The brass index jerks in Kynes's hand, then settles, pointing through the dark corridor toward the central desk. Beyond it, chained stone shelves loom in the vault like a prison for records.
The route is direct. The architects are still below.
Bren moves up beside him, one hand near her blade, eyes fixed on the black passage ahead. The crystal seal behind them stays dead, as if it has finally given up the room.
Bren
That desk is where the truth sits. If they are here, they know we are coming.
Kynes steps into the corridor. The air tastes of ink and old lightning, and the chains begin to rattle softly as the vault answers his approach.
At the far desk, a stack of sealed records waits under a thin veil of dust. The path to the architects is no longer hidden, only guarded.
Reach the central desk