“I found the entrance after she died. I opened it once.” His voice hardened around the memory. “I could not stay long enough to read the walls.”
“Take me.”
“Now?”
“Before Serast decides why the chamber cracked.”
Lucien looked down the corridor where the attendants had vanished.
Then he took her hand.
“Come.”
The hidden passage opened behind a panel in the old royal corridor.
Lucien moved fast, but not carelessly. He knew where to pause, which corners carried sound, which sections of stone hid sightlines from guard stations.
Sabine followed close enough to feel the heat of him every time the passage narrowed.
Her hand still ached from the cut. His did too. She felt it through the bond, a faint mirrored throb beneath her own bandage.
Blood had made the connection louder.
Not cleaner.
Louder.
The passage dipped. The polished palace disappeared behind them, replaced by rough stone, damp air, and darkness that seemed to belong to a much older building.
Lucien stopped before an iron-bound door.
He drew a key from inside his coat.
“This chapel was sealed after Isolde’s death,” he said.
“By whom?”
“The official order came from my father.” His mouth tightened. “At Serast’s recommendation.”
“And unofficially?”
“By everyone who needed the old stones to stop speaking.”
He unlocked the door.
The hinges groaned softly.
Inside, the foundation chapel waited.
It was small.
That was the first shock.
After the Vow Chamber antechamber with its screens, plinths, sigils, and carved surveillance, Sabine had expected grandeur. Instead there were rough stone walls, a low ceiling, a dry basin, and two worn kneeling stones facing each other across the center.
Facing.
Equal.
