"We need to be cautious here," Princess Regina said from Leon's right, gesturing towards the alabaster-white structure in the chamber's centre. "That's another hostile construct. Sir Leon, Briana, and I faced a similar one earlier. It nearly outmanoeuvred us."

"So did Mel and I," Skye responded, eyes seeming to track the shifting glyphs that crawled like liquid script across the walls and floor. "That one anticipated every move Mel made. Like it knew what she was about to do."

"It behaved the same for us." The princess glanced briefly at Leon, then back to Skye. "I had wondered whether it might react differently to you. Is it safe to say it did?"

Skye's brow furrowed slightly. "Sort of, yeah. Guess that means I should handle this one?"

At the front, Dame Smythe looked from them to the dormant shape, then stepped forward. She lifted the hilt of her bladeless sword. With a pulse of blue light, the blade sprang into being. "I will act as your shield."

"Works for me." Skye moved to her side. A slim silver ring on her finger glowed, and twin crescent blades shimmered into her hands — razor-thin, circular weapons trailing wisps of light that curled like smoke.

Leon blinked, somewhat taken aback by the sudden shift in her presence. She seemed…misaligned, as though something in her rhythm no longer matched the world's.

He reached for his sword, ready to assist, but Princess Regina lifted a hand. "It may be best to let the two of them handle this."

He held her gaze for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the centre of the chamber as Dame Smythe and Skye advanced. The structure stirred, rising to reveal the figure beneath — pale stone, four-limbed and hunched, with a broad, triangular head that felt odd to look at.

What followed was a battle Leon wasn't entirely sure how to put into words.

He already had a grasp of Dame Smythe's strength. He'd fought beside her, seen her precision, her steadiness. There might be techniques she had not shown, but he knew her measure.

Skye, however, was much harder to gauge.

That strange, misaligned presence only deepened once she moved. Her actions somehow appeared almost out of sync with reality itself, as if Leon were watching them half a second too late — like a memory replayed out of order. The stone construct, which anticipated most of Dame Smythe's strikes before they landed, faltered against Skye. Not just late in reacting, but wrong in reacting.

At one moment, Leon saw Skye drive a foot forward, then suddenly twist into a back handspring, her blades flashing without disrupting the fluid motion. The construct lurched to avoid a strike that never came. An instant later, she sliced both blades through the empty air in front of her — and only a second after did the construct, several paces away, convulse as glowing fractures split its stone skin, light spilling through the cracks.

The battle unfolded in this discordant rhythm. Dame Smythe anchored the fight, absorbing the construct's heaviest blows, shielding Skye with practised movements. Skye, meanwhile, danced through its guard with impressive agility, her timing skewed in a way that rendered her attacks nearly impossible to predict. Even when glyphs flared across the chamber and unleashed bursts of arcane force at her, they seemed off-mark, too early or too late.

At last, after a skirmish shorter than Leon's own with a similar foe, the construct collapsed, its cores split, sand spilling across the floor.

Skye exhaled, dismissing her blades. Dame Smythe let her sword vanish in kind. Skye grinned, slapping her palm against Dame Smythe's in a sharp clap. The Oathbound accepted the gesture with a stoic, uninvolved expression before the two returned.

Leon studied Skye closely. "That is a very…distinctive style. I have never seen its like. Does it have a name?"

She gave him a knowing smile. "It's a secret." Then she gestured to the far wall, where a circular platform was set into the stone. "Anyway, now that's handled — should we move on?"

Leon's eyes followed her as she walked off, calling softly for Melody to follow. His thoughts churned with what he had seen.

There had been aura in her strikes. Of that much, he was sure. He thought he'd also caught traces of simple spellwork. But beyond that, he had no real framework for what he'd witnessed.

Her technique was genuinely foreign.

"I felt much the same when I first saw her fight," Princess Regina murmured beside him, her tone touched with mild amusement as she watched his face. "Skye has a habit of surprising people in ways they never expect."

Leon dipped his head. "It would appear so, Your Highness. You've found a rather…unique group of companions."

"I have," she said with a quiet nod. "But we really should hurry, or they will leave us behind."

Ahead, Skye murmured something to Melody, who toyed nervously with her sleeves, eyes averted from the glowing glyphs on the walls. Dame Smythe walked in front at her usual steady pace.

Leon and Princess Regina caught up as the group reached the platform at the far end. There, they confirmed that it was a lift — though Skye referred to it as an 'elevator'. A pedestal with an engraved panel stood waiting at its edge. The princess stepped forward and began interacting with it.

Soon, the platform shifted, and their descent began.

Leon had braced for speed — perhaps a sudden drop or a rush like the mage-forged he had seen before. Instead, the platform descended slowly, almost lazily. Not what he would have expected of Zuver relics.

The stone walls closed in around them. From the corner of his eye, he saw Melody fidgeting again, her gaze darting. Skye leaned down, whispering something to her. A moment later, Melody relaxed, sitting cross-legged as she pulled embroidery from the folds of her robe and set fingers to work.

Skye smiled faintly, then drifted over towards the others, gaze landing on Princess Regina. "Do we have any idea where this thing's taking us? Or how long it'll be?"

The princess shook her head. "I tried to decipher the inscriptions, but most are beyond me."

"Well, no harm in a breather while we ride." Skye tilted her head back to look up into the deepening darkness above them. "Might even have time for a power nap."

"You are not taking a nap, Skye," the princess said, a note of exasperation creeping into her voice.

Skye sighed. "Fine, fine. Guess I'll find another way to pass the time." Her eyes gleamed as she looked down at the princess. "Come to think of it, aren't we due for another 'girl talk'? You postponed the last one. Said you were too busy with your 'research' or something. That excuse doesn't work now, does it?"

Regina's eyes widened. Her mouth opened, then shut. "T-That's not appropriate conversation right now! Or ever, frankly!"

Leon blinked, glancing between them. He was swiftly getting the sense that this was a discussion he had no business overhearing.

"You're making it sound dirty," Skye said with a widening grin.

Regina turned a faint shade of red. "Y-You're the one who is—" She stopped herself, visibly flustered.

"Dirty?" Skye provided sweetly, like a cat toying with its prey.

The princess glared at her, lips pressed into a thin line.

Skye lifted both hands innocently. "I'm just curious what kind of crushes an imperial princess might've had. Courtly flings, mysterious strangers at royal balls — that sort of thing. I'd have shared my stories if I could."

"There are no such stories. None. At all."

"Come on. There has to be something. It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"It very much is when you are the one asking," Regina huffed, folding her arms.

Her gaze flicked to Leon, and his discomfort deepened into secondhand guilt. Then it sharpened into something closer to dread when he caught the glint in her eyes — the look of someone who had just found a scapegoat.

"If you are so curious about another's romantic accounts, Sir Leon's would be far more interesting." She gestured toward him. "Unlike me, I happen to know that he is betrothed."

Leon's breath caught. His sense of duty kept him from wincing outright, but the dread in his chest solidified like stone.

Skye turned on him, curious. "Really? Congrats. When's the wedding?"

Leon shifted his weight. "…There is no set date."

"Ah, gotcha. One of those hard-to-sync schedules?"

"No…we simply have nothing planned." He hesitated. "Baroness Hartford and I…our relationship is complicated."

"Oh." Skye tilted her head, studying him. "Is it one of those arranged noble marriages?"

He gave a slow nod. "…You could say that."

"That's rough," she replied sympathetically. "But at least she's nice? Beautiful? Rich?"

Leon paused before answering carefully. "Most would say she is beautiful, and I believe she has considerable wealth now as well. As for nice…"

"Oh." Skye winced. "Don't tell me she's one of those classic noble lady types? Condescending, cold, and always acting like she's three ranks above everyone else?"

Leon said nothing.

Skye covered her mouth. "My sincerest apologies." She shot a glare at the princess. "You tricked me. Now I'm the villain for dunking on his villainess girlfriend."

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Leon froze at the word.

Even after all this time, he had never once thought of Scarlett in terms where something like girlfriend applied. Hearing it—especially paired with villainess—sent a ripple of discomfort through him. Some primal instinct warning that she would not take kindly to such a title.

"I was not aware matters were so strained between you and Baroness Hartford, Sir Leon," Princess Regina said, her earlier blush now mostly gone. "I apologise if I raised an unpleasant subject. Still…I admit I'm surprised by your description of her. I understand why some might find her arrogant, but she never struck me as someone who deserved to be called a villainess. On the contrary, on the occasions I spoke with her, she was polite. Pleasant, even."

Leon sighed and shook his head. "You misunderstand, Your Highness. I wouldn't use that word." He glanced at Skye, who gave him a sheepish look. "…While I suspect some might call her that, and I think Scarlett has made questionable choices in the past, she has also done a great deal of good of late. You might not have heard, but the Hartford barony has donated considerable resources to imperial relief efforts since the Tribe of Sin's attacks began."

"Truly?" Regina leaned her head to the side. "I was not under the impression that the Hartfords were particularly affluential. But I suppose with her recent Zuverian discoveries, she may have gained new funding and influence with the mage towers."

Leon nodded. "That is likely part of it. Though, to be entirely honest, I won't pretend to understand even half of what Scarlett's been involved with recently. She has made moves I never expected and forged alliances with powerful figures I thought beyond her reach. I do still question her motives at times, but…I no longer believe she is as ill-intentioned as I once did."

"…Sounds like your situation's messy," Skye said.

"That is one way to put it," Leon admitted. He fell quiet, thoughts tightening into knots.

Matters always seemed like they got far more complicated than they had to with Scarlett. His life, his loyalties, even the way he thought of himself. Sometimes, it felt easier not to think of her at all.

The lift hummed steadily as silence settled over them.

Then Skye turned towards Dame Smythe. "How about you, Briana? Any crushes worth sharing?"

The Oathbound raised a single eyebrow. "No."

"Fair enough."

Princess Regina looked annoyed. "Why does she get away with that answer?"

Skye smirked at her. "Because she's not as fun to tease about this stuff."

Leon pretended not to hear whatever the princess muttered under her breath.

The platform continued its steady descent, the hum of its mechanics a steady background to their drifting conversations — nothing overly serious, simply more small talk, scattered jokes, and occasional silences. The sort of lull that came when tension eased but hadn't entirely vanished.

Eventually, the walls around them began to change. The pale stone darkened, giving way to glimpses of sheer black veined with fine golden threads, like strands of starlight caught in obsidian.

Then, the walls fell away.

The lift emerged into a vast, shadowed cavern. Alabaster pillars stretched down into darkness and up into gloom, towering like petrified trees beneath a stone sky. Walkways and terraces spiralled through the open air, webbed with crystal-illuminated railings enveloped in soft green.

Above, the cavern ceiling shimmered — not solid, but alive with hundreds of floating runes and diagrams, drifting in constellation-like formations. Trails of golden light streamed down from them, threading through the space like vines of starlight.

Leon and the others stared.

Truly, this place defied explanation.

"…and so the page, having mistaken the inked vellum for a page of his own sheet music, proceeded to recite an entire treaty in iambic pentameter — to a panel of ambassadors who did not speak Imperial, mind you."

Raimond ended the tale with a small flourish of the wrist and the soft exhale of a chuckle, letting silence reclaim its place in the corridor. He paced leisurely a few steps behind Nol'viz, the rhythm of his footsteps echoing lightly against the engraved stone. The Lanternborn incantation hovering at his shoulder cast a muted, sleepy glow across the walls, catching strange inscriptions as they passed.

Nol'viz gave no indication she had heard a word of what he'd said.

Which Raimond, naturally, chose to interpret only in the most generous light.

She was, in all likelihood, rendered speechless by the sheer absurdity and humour of the story. A courtier who confused diplomacy for poetry? Who could resist such whimsy? If he didn't know better, he'd call it complete farce and hyperbole! But why should a harpist's apprentice from Kilsfell lie about something her aunt's employer's steward's brother had witnessed—or been near—or possibly just heard about over drinks?

He nodded to himself.

"You're very disciplined," he said conversationally. "Most would have at least stifled a smile at the iambic misunderstanding. But not you. Utter composure. Admirable, truly."

She didn't so much as glance back. Fortunately, Raimond did not mind. He considered it poor etiquette to be offended by silence — especially when one was as captivating as himself. Besides, as the saying went, it was better to be ignored in refinement than applauded in rudeness.

Not that he was being ignored.

The corridor curved gently ahead, its walls inlaid with that maddeningly intricate Zuverian filigree — a language not so much written as wrought, like jewellery stretched into script. Raimond slowed near one particularly elaborate cluster of markings, letting his fingertips skim close to the surface without quite touching. The symbols shimmered faintly under the Lanternborn's glow, their edges rippling with the faintest suggestion of movement.

"Mm." He narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping. "I don't suppose you intend to do something dreadfully mysterious and irreversible, are you?"

The wall, rather unsurprisingly, offered no reply. Though he had entertained the possibility that it might, if only for dramatic effect.

"Excellent, then," he said, already half-turning and quickening his pace to catch up with his sober companion. "We're operating at full enigma capacity already."

The walking continued — as it had for some time. The layout of Beld Thylelion remained a maze of meandering hallways and haunting stillness. Every chamber felt like an empty stage left behind mid-performance. Too precise to be ruins, yet too hollow to be alive. Whatever hand had fashioned this place had done so with a blend of terrifying intentionality and unnervingly arbitrary execution.

Aside from Raimond's occasional commentary and Nol'viz's impressively absolute silence—Raimond found that, despite that, she made for a surprisingly pleasant conversational partner—their journey had remained largely uneventful. Which, in itself, felt vaguely ominous.

Thrice they encountered threats in the form of animated metal constructs or beasts of alabaster stone with cores of flowing sand. These were dispatched by Nol'viz with the calm, surgical efficiency of someone deeply disinterested in resistance — or, perhaps, in anything at all.

Raimond, meanwhile, offered words of spirited encouragement, clapped politely, and took precisely two steps back for safety whenever it seemed she might temporarily have forgotten about his rather unforgettable presence.

In the end, at least, there were no marks on his robes. He considered that a tactical victory.

They now reached a section that some might have liked to call a 'junction.' Raimond would have let them, though he preferred terms like 'architectural convergence' or perhaps 'spatial symposium'.

Three corridors stretched before them, each identical in architectural perfection, cold symmetry, and unnerving stillness. Raimond's eyes swept over the carvings etched into the stone, noting the minute variations that bordered each passage.

Not that they meant anything to him. But sometimes, even the most ostentatiously meaningless detail was worth committing to memory.

The left corridor bore what he might have described as slightly more angular lines, weaving through the ever-present Zuverian ornamentation. The middle path felt smoother somehow, its engravings flowing in elegant, mirrored arcs. And the rightmost corridor—if he had to pick a word—was asymmetrical. Curiously flawed.

Of course, he doubted anyone else would have agreed with him. Most would unquestionably insist that each corridor's embellishments were the same. Identically arranged, mathematically mirrored, impossibly precise. And if pressed under the weight of rational argument, he'd be inclined to nod along. There truly was no meaningful difference between these corridors that any reasonably observant individual could detect with the naked eye.

This was precisely why Raimond had always maintained that creativity—and its darling twin, imagination—were the finest tools one could carry into the unknown. Not blades, nor maps, nor logic bound in leather — but that ineffable spark that lets one see a cathedral in a ruin, or poetry in a crack across the wall.

He smiled.

"Remarkable craftsmanship," he asked, stepping up beside Nol'viz, who had stopped before the three looming passageways. "The Zuver seem to have had quite the flair for dressing up a not-so-particularly-existential crossroads, wouldn't you say?"

Nol'viz did not respond. She stood perfectly still, as though straining to hear something Raimond could not. It was almost uncanny. How much she resembled a statue in that moment. Like a doll placed just so by unseen hands. Not a single twitch. Not even breath.

Raimond observed her closely, gaze drifting up to the three lavender eyes that shimmered faintly in the polished white of her mask.

"Well then," he said at last, clapping his hands once and gesturing to the rightmost path. "Shall we take the one that looks like a drunk stonemason got halfway through carving it before he remembered he'd left the kiln running?"

At that, Nol'viz finally turned her masked gaze towards him. Her voice emerged like whispered wind skittering across dry leaves in a light breeze. "Why do you continue talking?"

Raimond smiled warmly. "So you don't feel awkward."

She stared at him. Said nothing. Then turned her head back towards the corridor he'd indicated. "Why that way?" she asked, tilting her head ever so slightly. "It looks the same."

"Ah, but only if you fail to use your mind's eyes." He tapped a finger against his temple. "A wise man once said that appearances are the camouflage of choice for the profoundly significant."

Nol'viz looked back at him. "Who said that?"

He grinned. "Me. Just now."

She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and began walking down the path he'd chosen without another word.

Raimond blinked. Just once.

Despite her terse nature, which almost seemed a militant embodiment of the economy of speech, he had, admittedly, expected a touch more verbal pushback. He had, in fact, prepared three different persuasive approaches, one of which involved a metaphor about oranges that he'd been rather proud of and mildly heartbroken to shelve.

He lingered for a moment, letting her shadow melt into the gloom ahead, then glanced back at the other two corridors.

His smile faltered, just briefly, as something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Then he turned and followed.

"It's a fascinating thing," he said aloud to no one in particular as he caught up again, "how the smallest things can whisper the loudest truths. A crack in the stone. A twitch in a stranger's expression. A corridor in an ancient ruin that pretends not to want you. I find it's often the subtle places where the real answers hide. That…or spiders. But, as always, I choose optimism."

They continued on.

Raimond wasn't entirely sure how long they walked. Time was a slippery thing in Beld Thylelion, unmoored from the usual rhythms — what with the nigh-identical halls repeating on end and the silence stretching like an incantation meant to forget. But across several turns and forks, he made three more suggestions on their route. Nol'viz accepted them all in the same measured hush.

As gratifying—and flattering—as it might have been to interpret her compliance as trust or admiration, he suspected it was neither. She simply…let him. No words, no questions, no objections.

A curious individual indeed.

It made one wonder what a person like her was doing entangled with the likes of the Hallowed Cabal. And whether her path through this place was as aimless as it appeared, or if it was merely veiled, also guided by some quiet, unspoken purpose.

There was one thing Raimond was rather certain of: the deeper they went, the more she undoubtedly became a threat to him. She had little reason to remain tolerant of him for even this long, and most sane people would have tried to abandon her several turns ago.

But something told him he would have use for her.

As they went, Raimond became more attentive. To the walls. To the glyphs. To the rhythm beneath the stone. To the shifts in the air. Until eventually, the thoughts that usually spilt from his mouth gave way to silence, and he focused only on the symbols, scanning each intersection, each etched line, every flicker of energy folded into the old Zuverian architecture.

Nol'viz glanced at him once when the silence settled fully over him. Then looked ahead again.

And then, Raimond saw it.

Just ahead, tucked within a long, unbroken span of wall—where the stone seemed seamless to any casual glance—was a sliver. A crease in the symmetry. Barely there. But there all the same.

His eyes narrowed, and as they drew level with it, he slowed to a stop. Nol'viz paused a step ahead, turning slightly to glance back at him.

He stepped toward the wall. Studied it. Then lifted a hand, letting his fingers brush lightly across the faint seam. He closed his eyes.

Deep within himself, through that fragile, flickering tether he had felt since the moment he entered these once-forgotten halls, he reached. A stirring answered. Subtle. Distant. Like the soft tolling of a bell through heavy fog. A confirmation.

He exhaled gently, and under his breath offered a quiet, reverent, and—for once—unadorned prayer of gratitude. Genuinely. Sincerely. As thanks for the guidance.

A soft click sounded beneath his touch. The wall shifted, not opening so much as fading, revealing a narrow passage wreathed in darkness. And within it, standing solitary in a cradle of stale air, was a single obelisk of dull, grey metal.

What some might have called a Kilnstone.

Raimond turned back to Nol'viz, offering yet another of his charming smiles. "What say you? Care to join me on a detour into the unknown?"

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