The archway was a mouth of darkness. The air that flowed from it was no longer the chill, stagnant breath of the tomb but a faint, dry current, carrying the scent of ozone and old dust. It was the only sign of a larger space beyond our rubble island. With two mana-lamps held high—one by Alaric at the front, one by Lucian in the center of our ragged column—we left the unstable slope and entered the constructed heart of the prison.
The change was immediate. The rough, collapsed stone gave way to dressed blocks, fitted together with pre-imperial precision. The ceiling vaulted above us, lost in shadow beyond the lamplight. We were in a corridor, wide enough for five to walk abreast, its walls smooth and covered in a patina of ages. This was no natural cavern. It was built. And it was ancient.
