They leave before the lantern dies.
Not because it's necessary—Cael admits as much—but because staying still for too long makes the city curious. Curiosity, he says, is how Virelyn justifies its worst decisions.
They move one at a time through the low archway, Ilen first, then Nyra, then Cael sealing the quiet behind them. The passages here are narrower, older. No attempt at comfort. No ornament. Just stone and shadow and the soft scuff of boots against dust.
Nyra feels different today.
Not lighter. Not stronger.
Looser.
Like something inside her has stopped bracing for impact.
She keeps her hands folded in front of her as they walk, fingers laced together, resisting the urge to touch the satchel. The mask doesn't call to her exactly—but she's aware of it in the way you're aware of someone standing just out of sight.
Ilen slows near a junction where three tunnels meet. One slopes upward, faint crystal glow pulsing from above. Another curves downward into darkness. The third is barely noticeable—a narrow cut in the stone that looks less like a passage and more like a mistake.
"We go wrong," Ilen says, and takes the narrow one.
Nyra follows without question.
The air grows cooler. The walls here are damp, marked with old symbols worn nearly smooth. Not Guild markings. Older. Or maybe just less proud.
Nyra reaches out without thinking and brushes her fingers along the stone.
She feels it immediately.
A faint vibration. Not magic—not the sharp hum she's used to—but something quieter. Memory, maybe. The sense that this place has been passed through and forgotten many times over.
"You feel that too," Ilen says softly.
Nyra withdraws her hand. "What is it?"
"A bypass," Ilen replies. "The city's full of them. Places built for use, not permanence."
Cael glances back. "Virelyn forgets what it doesn't need to look at."
Nyra files that away.
They emerge into a broader space—a collapsed chamber where the ceiling has caved in just enough to let a thin column of pale light filter down from somewhere impossibly high above. Dust floats through it slowly, like the air itself is thinking.
Nyra stops without realizing she has.
The light doesn't hurt.
It doesn't react to her.
It just is.
She steps into it cautiously. Nothing happens. No hum. No pressure. No crystal singing in recognition.
Her chest tightens unexpectedly.
"This place," she murmurs, "it doesn't care who I am."
Ilen smiles faintly. "That's why it survived."
They rest there for a while.
Not sleeping. Not hiding. Just existing in a space the city has overlooked.
Ilen pulls out a strip of cloth and begins wrapping a small crystal fragment, hands moving automatically. Cael sits with his back against a fallen slab, eyes closed—not asleep, Nyra suspects, but listening in a way that has nothing to do with sound.
Nyra watches them both.
Found is not the right word.
Neither is safe.
But something about this—about them—feels anchored.
She reaches into her satchel and finally removes the mask.
Unwrapped, it looks smaller than she expects. Less imposing. The crack still glows faintly, that wrong color slipping through the fracture like a held breath.
She turns it in her hands.
"What were masks like before the Rings?" she asks quietly.
Cael opens his eyes.
Ilen pauses mid-wrap.
"That's not common knowledge," Ilen says carefully.
"I know," Nyra replies. "That's why I asked."
Cael studies her for a long moment, then exhales slowly. "They weren't mandatory," he says. "They were tools. Temporary. Used when needed."
"For what?" Nyra asks.
"To focus," Ilen adds. "To protect against overload. Not to suppress."
Nyra's throat tightens. "So why change them?"
Cael looks up toward the shaft of light. "Because tools that can be removed scare people who want permanence."
Silence settles again.
Nyra presses her thumb gently against the crack.
The mask doesn't pulse.
Doesn't resist.
It almost feels… receptive.
"Cael," she says suddenly. "When my mask cracked—when everything reacted—was that because of me?"
He considers this.
"Yes," he says. "And no."
She frowns. "That's not fair."
"It's accurate," he replies. "Your mask failed because it was trying to do two opposing things at once."
"Which were?"
"Hide something," Ilen says quietly. "And respond to it."
Nyra's breath catches.
She lowers the mask into her lap.
"You don't have to explain," she says quickly. "I said I didn't want answers too fast."
Cael nods. "And you're right."
They don't push it.
Later, as they prepare to move again, Nyra lingers at the edge of the chamber. The light brushes her face, pale and indifferent.
She wonders how many people have passed through places like this without realizing what they were stepping through.
"What happens," she asks, "when the city remembers something it wanted to forget?"
Ilen slings her pack over her shoulder. "Usually?"
Nyra looks at her.
"It panics."
Cael steps closer, voice lower now. "Or it rewrites the story so it doesn't have to."
Nyra nods slowly.
As they disappear back into the tunnels, the light continues to fall exactly where it always has—unmoved, unrecorded.
And somewhere deep in Nyra's satchel, the cracked mask rests quietly, no longer humming in obedience—
but listening.