The sanctum doors dragged shut behind them with a low, stubborn groan, like wood grinding its teeth on stone. There was no slam. No echo. Just that strained pull, as if the room itself did not want to let them leave. The silence that followed was heavier than rest ever could be. It settled thick and motionless, like stale air pressed into velvet, heavy with memory—quiet that clung to lungs and whispered something awful just beyond reach.
Verek stood stock‑still, not wanting to break it, letting the chill creep through his boots and bone until it settled in his spine. His hand shifted over the curved bonework of his staff, tapping once on the dusty floor—not a spell, not a signal. Just to remind everything here they were still alive.
Caylen was the first to move. His boots scraped the stone floor like they forgot how to lift off. He dropped into a carved chair hard, shoulders folding inward, mouth twisting as though he'd swallowed ash. He yanked the stack of papers from the satchel and flung them on the table. Parchments and rubbings tumbled everywhere like dead leaves. He muttered under his breath, "Alright. Let us see if any of this garbage makes sense."
Ezreal stayed upright, leaning by the door. His arms were crossed so tight it looked like he was holding his ribs together. His golden‑tinted eyes flicked from shadow to table to Verek's cloak, anywhere but the messy pile of aged words. He spoke, low and clipped, "There is a pattern in this. It is not random. Malarath is not chasing power like a drunk looking for a sword. It is structured. It is old."
Dax planted himself against the far wall of the sanctum, arms crossed too, but unlike Ezreal he carried weight, as though he served as a living buttress. His voice came quietly, without softness or menace, just tiring truth. "We know the man. He does not collect junk for fun. He is building something. A bastard puzzle built of prayers and blood."
Verek slipped out of the shadow, stepping forward. The low torchlight caught an odd spark in his silver‑blonde hair, a flicker of starlight that had gone still since they uncovered the vault's secrets. He leaned in over the table, one hand drifting over the edges. "It is ritual," he said, voice threaded with gravity. "Not just a structure. Every site we've found is layered—sigils, ley lines, elemental tethers. He does not gather relics. He awakens something."
Caylen rubbed along his jaw as though he could scrub the thought away. "You really think that egg is real?" he asked, staring at the etching of the dragon‑shaped thing glowing from within. "Not just another story they told to scare idiots away from graves?"
Ezreal's laugh came sharp and short—like broken glass. "Nothing is just metaphor when blood is involved," he said. "He chases something real. Tangible. Arcane crystal. Godmetal. Dragon‑forged glass. That scar? It is soaked deep, like wine in bone."
Dax stepped off the wall, boots thudding against the stone table. His movement had that thick, deliberate grace only someone used to throwing punches could have. "That mural in the Sepulchra." His voice dropped to a whisper, the words cold in the room. "Five dragons, five colors. I thought it was a bedtime story. I watched a wall bleed. Changed my mind."
Caylen squinted at the warped map. "Chromatic and metallic, split like mirror halves. You think the egg is a shell meant to hold both together?"
"No," Verek said softly. He didn't sit. His staff rested against his leg, hand hovering over the parchment cluster. "Not a shell," he said. "A lock. And the shards"—he looked up then, eyes sharp—"they are keys. Placed correctly, the egg will not hatch. It will open."
Dax whispered in response, the words heavy: "The five‑headed queen."
That name hung in the air and soured it. Like something dead had crawled back into the stones. No one spoke after that, but the weight settled even deeper.
Caylen folded his arms, the noise of leather creaking from tight shoulders. "Okay. Let us assume she is real. Let us assume he is putting her back together. Why bury the shards in vaults? Why riddles, sigils, blood‑marked doors?"
Ezreal leaned both hands flat on the table. His tone became flint‑cold. "Because they are not just locked away," he said. "They are sealed in places that fight people like him. Sites built to reject folks who'd want to claim them."
Verek nodded, eyes narrowed. "Each site is not a trap. It is a crucible. Built to burn people until only truth remains … or nothing survives."
Dax tapped the table lightly. "One tomb may suck up magic. Another desert dreams of grief. You walk in, carry rage or guilt, the shard waits in a place shaped to break you."
Ezreal clacked his tongue. "Traps of the soul, not just of flesh."
Caylen's voice dropped flat. "Then guesswork is useless. We cannot just stumble through tombs until one eats us. If he is ahead ..."
"He isn't," Verek said, quiet but certain. His words filled the room like stones stacking themselves. "Not yet. If he held even one shard, the world would taste it. Magic would bend. Water would shiver."
Ezreal nodded. "The wards would flinch. Maybe even crack. We would know."
Dax leaned over the map, tracing a jagged cluster of mountains along Kaelith's territory. "If we are doing this—really doing it—we need help. Spell‑casters, historians, people who read ruined prayers without pissing them off."
Caylen muttered, "You mean the Queen."
Ezreal didn't turn. "She will listen."
Dax narrowed his eyes. "Will she believe us?"
Verek's gaze hardened. "She must. This is not border squabble. This is war in its truest form. Not fought with swords but with memory and shape."
The room darkened around them, thickening with decision. Nothing magical—just patterns flickering in their minds.
Caylen let a long breath out. "Then we head to Phokorus. We tell her everything. If she laughs at us … fine. But she needs to hear it."
Dax rubbed stubble on his face. "If she slams us in a cell, I am blaming the bard."
Caylen let a small grin stretch tight. "You always blame the bard."
Ezreal gathered scrolls slowly, careful—as though each had teeth. "Then let us move."
Verek paused, looking at each member of the ragged group, then reached down and ruffled Thimblewick's fur as the small familiar peeked out of Verek's satchel. Thimblewick blinked with mismatched eyes, then melted back under the folds of cloak.
They moved out in silence that suddenly felt purposeful. No speech, not yet. The sanctum door groaned behind them again—like it knew it shouldn't be watching what they carried in their minds. Outside, the wind had shifted. It pressed low across the hills, slow and mean. The tall grass bent toward Phokorus, like something was gathering itself to watch.
Caylen paused in the threshold, scroll tube clutched like a lifeline. He turned once to look at the maps spread across the table, rolled‑up parchments filled with sigils and rubbings, now untouched and dusty. He stared like ink could change shape and tell them mercy was an option. It was not.
"That egg," he murmured, voice low enough the wind wouldn't carry. "You think it is really alive?"
Dax looked up at the sky, the embers of dusk burning low overhead. "I think it is dreaming."
Ezreal's voice followed quietly, the word almost a breath. "And someone is trying to wake it."
Verek did not answer. He only looked at the distant horizon before him, then down at the staff in his hand. His grip tightened—not from fear or hesitation, but from purpose.
They stepped out of the sanctum together, sealing something behind them. Perhaps a chapter. Perhaps a graveside. What they carried wasn't myth. It was a lock. And Malarath was getting dangerously close to the last piece of his key.