The vault was colder now.
Not the kind of cold that touched skin—this one crept into Dominic's chest. Into his bones. Like something ancient had just turned its eye on him.
The door behind him sealed itself with a slow, grinding hum.
He was alone again.
Just him… and the throne.
The chamber wasn't large. It curved like a seashell, the walls glowing with shifting patterns of light and memory. Ghostly images flickered across the coral-carved surfaces—battles, councils, storms. Things he couldn't quite grasp.
But the throne…
It wasn't grand. It was jagged. Broken down the middle, like it had been cracked by lightning. The left half was still solid, rising like a wave frozen mid-crash. The right… shattered, rusted with old blood.
Dominic stepped toward it.
Each step echoed strangely, like the vault wasn't sure he belonged.
