The city of Grandis was a different beast beneath the shroud of midnight. The towering spires of the Academy, usually bathed in the proud gold of the sun, now stood like jagged teeth against a bruised purple sky. Aleric followed Professor Elara through the labyrinthine alleys of the Lower District, his cowl pulled low to obscure the occasional flicker of crimson in his gaze.
"Keep your pace steady," Elara ordered softly, her voice a mere ripple on the surface of the icy air. "The Royal Guard is listening for the stumble of the nervous. To them, we are only specters in the mist."
Aleric held tongue, his hand resting on the hilt of the standard-issue sword at his side. He knew the sword to be an awkward weapon for him to wield compared to the 'Slashes' of the nobility, but the sword was the mask that made him necessary. As long as the sword remained in his possession, he was only an average scholar.
They came to a generic iron grate that led to the mired banks of the Great Canal in the capital. With a flick of her wrist, the heavy iron grating lifted silently.
"Down," she whispered.
The air that filled the space below reeked with the smell of damp earth and stale magic from the distant past. But as they climbed down the stone spiral of the old sewer system, the architecture shifted. The rough city bricks gave way to enormous stone blocks with flecks of obsidian—First Architecture.
Finally, they stood before a circular door of solid white silver, engraved with a thousand interlocking rings. The air hummed with a low, vibrating frequency that made Aleric's teeth ache.
"This is the first gate," Elara said, her eyes narrowing. "The 'Aurelian Coil.' It requires a hand that carries no weight. My Aura is too vast; the moment I attempt to probe the mechanism, the vault shall seal itself ten times tighter. Use your sight, Aleric. Find the path."
Aleric stepped forward, drawing close to the silver surface. His vision shifted. The world bled into shades of grey and shadow, save for the door, which ignited into a spiderweb of glowing crimson threads.
He could see them now—the 'threads' of the lock. They were not static; they pulsed like a heartbeat, shifting in a complex, mathematical dance. While Elara saw a wall of impossible power, Aleric saw a puzzle with one loose string.
There, he thought, his eyes burning a vivid red. The junction point where the mana pressure is diverted during the pulse.
"You have to get it exactly right," Elara cautioned, her eyes flickering to her own dagger. "Or the feedback will freeze your blood in your veins."
Aleric didn't reply. His hand reached out with just a single finger, varning the tip of the digit with a tiny layer of mana. Nothing more: no push, no pull – just the wait for the pulse.
Now.
He pressed a small recessed rune on the edge of the silver door.
For an instant, the humming ceased. The intersecting circles creaked in protest as they spun in opposing directions with a crunch of grinding glass. The thick silver door did not swing wide; it irradiated a mist of magic energy, unveiling a black corridor beyond.
Aleric exhaled, his knees feeling momentarily weak. The precision required had been more exhausting than a full hour of martial drills.
"Impressive," Elara murmured, though her expression remained guarded. "You found the eye of the needle, Aleric Thorne. Most would have tried to break the threads. You simply untied the knot."
"I am merely doing as the bargain requires, Professor," Aleric replied, his voice raspy. He reached down and gripped his sword hilt, his knuckles white. He did not feel comfort in the steel, but he knew he had to keep up the appearance of a swordsman.
Elara stepped into the dark corridor, the light from her palm illuminating walls lined with statues of faceless warriors. "Do not get comfortable. We are now within the throat of the vault, and the First Architects did not build this place for guests."
As they moved deeper, the air grew colder. Aleric's red eyes flickered toward the statues. He didn't see stone; he saw reservoirs of dormant, violent energy waiting for a trigger. He tightened his grip on the sword, knowing that if these things woke up, his mediocre swordsmanship wouldn't be enough—but he would die before he showed her his true hands unless there was no other choice.