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Chapter 1053: The Source of Light

The guide and the liaison declined without hesitation. Knaff had already drifted, without appearing to notice, several steps closer to the trees. The soldiers positioned near him discouraged any further drift.

Rother stepped across the threshold without a coat, without a mask.

“You’re certain?” Sean said again.

“Keep the extra for the soldiers who might need to follow us.” She moved her shoulders. “I’m certain.”

Inside, it was unexpectedly dry.

Sand had filtered through the entrance over years — or decades — and half-blocked the passage so that they had to stoop moving forward. The walls on either side showed the damage of deep time: paving bricks heaved apart by roots, vines threading through every crack, the surface crumbling where moisture had crept in from above. Rother led, swinging an ax to clear the way. Without her, the downward passage would have taken the better part of a day.

“This place hasn’t been sealed for as long as the rumor claims.” Sean’s voice came back muffled through his mask. “Or not entirely.”

“What did you find?” Rother glanced back.

“Torch slots on the walls.” He gestured at the carved notches in the stone. “At intervals of roughly ten paces. The chiseling is much cleaner than the wall surface around them — formed at different times. You don’t cut torch slots into a shelter you visited once during a rainstorm.”

Regular slots meant regular traffic. People walking in and out, often, over a long period.

Rother’s mouth curved. “So the lord did send people in. The story was adjusted somewhere between then and the tavern.”

“What I’m more concerned about,” said Sean soberly, “is whether the things they carried out are still somewhere nearby. His Majesty said the source material is essential to the Glory of the Sun. If any part of it has been moved — passed through unknown hands over a century — we have a problem.”

“We can’t solve that until Azima brings us to the first source.” Rother’s body stilled suddenly. Her head came up a fraction. “I think we’re close.”

The soil cleared from the stairs. Stone steps emerged from under the packed earth, and the passage opened and they moved faster.

Thirty minutes later, they stopped.

The torchlight ran out in front of them.

Not because there was nothing ahead — the passage continued — but because the darkness stopped the light. It was as if the shadows had substance, a wall of black that swallowed the flame’s reach entirely. The boundary between the torch-lit passage and what lay beyond was sharp and absolute, like the edge of a doorway into a different kind of space.

“That’s—” Azima said.

“A large hole.” Rother lifted her torch and walked in. She disappeared.

Sean followed.

Mind your step. The soldiers at the rear.

I will. Azima pressed her eyes shut for one breath, then stepped through.

The darkness took her. It took several seconds for her vision to rebuild anything at all — and when it did, the torches ahead looked wrong, diminished, like candleflames viewed from across a courtyard. The space had expanded enormously the moment they passed the boundary. What had looked like a wall of black was simply the failure of firelight to reach any reflecting surface.

“It’s smaller than I thought,” said Rother from somewhere ahead. Her voice came back in soft echoes. “Two hundred paces across at most, in any direction.”

“You can see the edges?” Sean asked.

“You get accustomed to it. Centuries underground — you adapt or you remain blind.” A pause. “The ceiling’s high. Stone floor, tiled.”

Azima reached for the coin.

The green light blazed.

It filled her entire field of vision — not just the coin, but the room. Floating luminous points drifted from the ceiling all the way to the floor, tracing the space’s full dimensions. In their light she could see the tiles beneath her boots, each one distinct. She could see the walls.

She stopped breathing.

The walls were covered in paintings. Floor to ceiling, dense and intricate — but the scenes they depicted were nothing any human hand could have drawn for any purpose she recognized. Mad shapes. Chaotic motion. Subjects and victims in postures of impossible anguish.

Below the paintings, iron cages ran in rows. In the cages: bones. Piled without ceremony. She did not try to count them.

A hundred paces from where she stood, the floor dropped into a large pit, and from the pit a beam of light rose — matching the green of the coin, but wider, steadier, far brighter.

The source.

“Azima.” Sean’s voice. He had turned. “Are you all right?”

Her throat was dry. She licked her lips.

“I think,” she said slowly, “we’ve arrived.”

“You found it?” Rother spread her hands. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

“We’re inside it.” Azima’s voice fell to almost nothing. “We are already inside the source.”

The witch answered in low murmurs, staring at the light that only she could see — green and boundless, flooding every corner of the room, outlining every cage, every bone, every grotesque figure on the painted walls.

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