The silence inside the Vault was a living thing.
It didn't merely fill the space—it devoured it. Every footstep the trio took vanished into the obsidian floor, swallowed whole before it could echo. Qin felt it first in his bones: a pressure, like diving too deep underwater. With every step forward, it grew heavier, compressing his ribs and coiling around his lungs.
Even Lyra, normally sharp and confident, walked with her shoulders hunched, her claws half-drawn as if she expected the walls to lunge.
Cazriel, by contrast, looked like he was walking into a memory. His eyes, narrowed and gleaming faintly, traced the runes along the walls—vampiric, angular, and glowing faintly in hues of blood and ash.
"This place doesn't use bars or beasts to guard what's hidden," he murmured. "It guards it with what you fear most."
Qin tried to swallow the knot in his throat. "Which is?"
"Truth," Cazriel said. "And the self."
They reached the end of the corridor and stepped into a wide, open hall. Dozens of mirrors stood in rows—tall, thin, cracked, some barely reflective. Their surfaces shimmered as if alive, as though the Vault itself were watching them arrive.
Then the reflections changed.
Qin didn't see himself. He saw a version of himself—twisted, monstrous. Eyes burning red. Fangs extended. Blood on his hands, dripping into fire. This Qin looked back with a grin far too wide for a human face.
Lyra stumbled beside him. Her reflection was a queen seated on a throne of bones, wearing a crown of fangs. A shattered pack lay at her feet.
Cazriel stepped between mirrors that didn't reflect him at all. His form blinked in and out like a dying star—some mirrors shattered as he passed, unable to hold his truth.
"This is the Mirror Gauntlet," he said. "An ancient psychic maze."
"I don't feel any traps," Lyra muttered.
"Because they're not physical." Cazriel turned to Qin. "This test is for you."
Immediately, Qin felt the pull again—like claws inside his head. Whispers stirred from the mirrors.
"You will destroy her."
"You are not chosen. You are engineered."
"One bite. One turn. One fall."
Qin clutched his temples. The mark on his chest—still faint from the first encounter with Umbhrax—burned to life. His fingers sparked involuntarily, threads of magic arcing from nail to palm.
Lyra moved toward him, but her image in the nearest mirror came to life—snarling, eyes black with void, teeth buried in Qin's throat.
The pain he felt from the vision made him reel backward, gasping.
Cazriel stepped in quickly, shielding Qin from another mirror that pulsed.
"Don't fight it blindly," he said. "This place feeds on chaos."
"I can't—" Qin gritted his teeth. "I can't focus."
He reached into himself, trying to center his power, but it twisted. His magic surged, unfiltered—shadow and light battling in his bloodstream. The mirror in front of him shattered violently from the force, showering them in glass that evaporated before touching the ground.
The room hummed.
Then the rest of the mirrors began to show a single image: a glowing scroll on a pedestal, surrounded by ancient sigils and violet light.
Cazriel narrowed his eyes. "That's the lure. It only shows the path once the Vault believes you're ready."
"Or broken," Lyra muttered.
A section of the wall opened without sound. They stepped through into a narrow hall lined with carvings—portraits of pale, winged creatures, each one looking down on a dying sun. The deeper they moved, the more oppressive the air became.
At the end of the tunnel, they reached a door covered in ancient vampire seals—glyphs tied together with threads of dried blood.
Cazriel placed a hand on the center rune. "Only one can pass."
Qin frowned. "Why?"
"Because this is your trial, not ours. We made it this far, but the scroll... it's attuned to bloodlines. To inheritance. And whether you accept it or not, your path is not human anymore."
Qin stepped forward. His hand touched the glyph—and the door pulsed. The mark on his chest flared again, echoing with distant whispers. The seal unknit itself.
He entered the final chamber alone.
It was vast. Silent. The walls glowed faintly, revealing a smooth floor with a spiral of runes etched deep into it. In the center: a raised platform of silver and obsidian, and atop it, the second Sunspell scroll. It pulsed with a golden heartbeat.
As soon as he stepped onto the spiral, the floor erupted with light. Chains—not metal, but magic—shot from the glyphs, wrapping around his legs, arms, chest. He screamed. The magic didn't burn—it drained. It was feeding off him.
Outside the chamber, Lyra pounded the sealed door. "Qin! What's happening?"
He could barely hear her. The chamber filled with voices.
"You don't belong."
"This power will hollow you."
"You're not strong enough."
"Let me in," whispered a deeper voice. Not his. Not theirs. Umbhrax.
His magic flared in panic, reacting wildly—fire met ice, shadow met light. His skin flickered with symbols in languages he'd never studied.
"Stop fighting yourself!" Cazriel's voice echoed from beyond the walls.
But he was losing control.
And then he remembered Lyra.
Her warmth. Her scent. Her steady gaze through the chaos of battle.
He reached with his magic—not outward, but inward, and through the invisible bond between them, forged when she bit him in their escape from the Vale.
Anchor me.
Across the seal, Lyra's own aura reacted, her werewolf instincts sensing the call. She pressed her hand to the stone. "I'm here."
He focused.
Thread by thread, his magic latched onto her aura—steady, wild, real. He pulled it into his spell, using her presence as a focus. Forbidden, yes. Desperate, absolutely. But it worked.
The chains burned away in a crack of thunder.
Qin collapsed forward onto the pedestal. His hand closed around the scroll just before he blacked out.
When he woke, the seals were gone. The room had dimmed. Lyra and Cazriel stood over him, worry etched into their faces.
"I got it," he whispered.
Cazriel didn't speak. He was staring up—at the ceiling.
There, a mural had begun to glow.
It showed three beings—wolf, bat, and robed mage—kneeling. And above them stood a fourth figure: tall, crowned in midnight thorns, wings made of starlight, holding a blade of fire and shadow.
An inscription glowed beneath:
"The Soul of Three shall unmake the lie."
Qin stood slowly, scroll in hand. "What lie?"
Lyra shook her head. "Maybe the lie that the races were meant to be separate."
Cazriel spoke softly. "Or the lie that one must rule above the others."
Qin stared at the mural, heart still hammering. The scroll pulsed in his hand like it knew something he didn't.
"We've got what we came for," he said. "Let's get out before this place changes its mind."
But even as they left the Vault of Silence behind, Qin couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed.
Inside him.
And it wasn't done.