Flynn positioned the pry bar just under the thin lip of metal.
“On my mark. Slow—if this is centuries old, I’m not breakin’ it.”
Heather steadied her hands on the stone. “Ready.”
He applied pressure. The bar flexed.
The seam resisted.
Then—
A soft, ancient click.
Stone shifted.
Barely, but enough to make Heather gasp.
Flynn froze. “Did you—”
“Yes.”
Her whisper trembled. “Again.”
He tried another angle. The metal groaned, low and reluctant, then moved. The entire bottom row of stones—eight of them, carved and soot-soaked—shifted inward a fraction of an inch.
A gust of air spilled out, smelling of untouched centuries.
Heather’s skin prickled.
Flynn’s eyes snapped to hers.
“Christ on a hill, Campbell… it opens.”
She swallowed. “Help me.”
Together with gloved gloved hands, breaths held, they eased their fingers into the gap. The stone panel resisted, old hinges clinging to the last of their stubbornness.
Then the hearth gave a long, tired sigh…
… and opened like a door.
Behind it yawned a hollow chamber no bigger than a trunk, carved straight into the stone foundation. Dust driftedin trembling flurries. The air was old and still, untouched by anything living for generations.
Heather raised her torch.
Something inside caught the light.
Not gold…
Not yet—
Something wrapped.
Layers of linen, browned with time. A bundle the size of a large book, tied with brittle cord. Beneath it was the faint glint of something metal, half-buried in ash.
Flynn whispered, “Are you seein’ this?”
Heather’s heart was a fist in her throat. “I… yes.”
