The Glass Mausoleum of Finn Voss

The Chamber of Frozen Fire

The descent beneath Moonflower Sanatorium was a slow unraveling of reality. The deeper Lyra went, the more the air warped, thickened, and pulsed with something ancient.

When she finally reached the chamber, she staggered to a halt.

The space was colossal, stretching farther than the sanatorium should have allowed. The walls were not stone, not brick, but frozen alchemical fire, resembling translucent amber. The entire chamber breathed, slow and steady, as though it were a living organism—a lung inhaling the forgotten.

Lyra's breath hitched.

Suspended in midair were dozens of glass coffins, each floating weightlessly, tethered by umbilical cords of golden light to a towering obsidian monolith in the center.

And there—

At the very heart of them all—

Finn's coffin.

His body lay eerily still inside the glass, wrapped in crystalline vines that had burrowed deep into his chest.

They pulsed.

A slow, rhythmic glow, as though siphoning something from within him.

And above—

The monolith flickered with moving images—ghostly echoes of Finn's memories.

She took a slow step forward, her pulse hammering behind her ribs.

Something inside this chamber was feeding on him.

---

The Memory Harvest

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the closest coffin. The glass was cold, a sharp contrast to the golden glow emanating from within.

The moment her skin touched it—

She fell.

A blacksmith's forge roared around her. Heat blistered her skin, but the man in front of her—trapped in this memory—did not flinch. He pressed molten iron against his own hand, his flesh melting into the metal. Bones snapped, cracked, fused—until the iron reshaped into a key made from his very being.

Lyra gasped, stumbling back—

But the moment broke—

And she was somewhere else.

A village burned, its people screaming. A child stood before the inferno, staring into the fire with unblinking eyes. And then—

She inhaled it.

Liquid flame filled her lungs, turning her insides to cinders. Her skin cracked, flaked, burned—

And then the village was safe.

The fire was gone.

And so was the child.

Lyra ripped herself free from the coffin, choking on air, her vision swaying—

But then—

Finn.

He stood before a silver mirror, his breath fogging against the glass. His hands trembled.

And then, in a voice just above a whisper—

"She'll come back wrong."

His coffin sealed shut.

Lyra yanked herself from the memory, staggering backward. Her chest heaved.

She turned to the monolith.

The vines—

They weren't just feeding on Finn's body.

They were devouring his memories.

And the monolith was keeping them.

---

The Warden's Revelation

A soft whirring filled the silence.

She turned sharply.

The automaton stood at the edge of the chamber, its brass joints clicking as it observed the monolith.

"This is the Vault of the Unstable," it intoned, voice hollow and deep. "The final threshold before a Flamekeeper is erased."

Lyra's breath turned sharp. "Erased?"

The automaton lifted a metallic hand, gesturing toward the monolith.

"Flamekeepers burn too brightly. Left unchecked, they consume. This mausoleum prunes the ones who threaten the balance."

Her heart skipped.

Finn—

He wasn't a Flamekeeper.

He had never held the flame.

He shouldn't be here.

"Then why him?" she demanded.

The automaton turned its hollow gaze to Finn's still form.

"When you first bonded with the flame," it said, "you could not contain it alone. He volunteered."

Lyra's stomach lurched.

Finn had taken part of her flame.

Had carried it so she wouldn't be consumed.

And now—

Now it was killing him.

"The heart," the automaton murmured, tilting its head, "is the seventh crucible. Remove it, and the seal breaks."

Lyra's gaze fell on the surgical table.

Her stomach twisted.

"Who cut it out of him?"

The automaton didn't answer.

But she already knew.

---

The Surgical Alchemy

There was no time to hesitate.

Lyra grabbed the nearest scalpel—its blade gleamed silver, forged from her own crystallized tears. A weapon capable of cutting through both flesh and memory.

Her hands shook.

She reached into her satchel, pulling out a small vial of moonflower nectar.

Highly potent.

Highly unstable.

If she miscalculated—she would ignite from the inside out.

She uncorked it carefully, tilting the vial over Finn's lips.

A single drop touched his tongue.

For a moment—nothing.

Then—his body seized.

The crystalline vines jerked violently, tightening around his chest as if resisting.

Lyra didn't wait.

She sliced through them.

Her scalpel carved through the crystalline tendrils like silk. Her own blood mixed with the glowing sap.

The vines recoiled.

A low humming filled the chamber.

Then—

Finn's chest split open.

Not like flesh. Not like bone.

Like shattering glass.

And inside—

A hollow void where his heart should have been.

Lyra's hands trembled as she reached for the Phantom Core.

It was not a heart.

It was a swirling orb of her own memories.

If she placed it inside him—she would lose part of herself.

But if she didn't—

Finn would never wake up.

Lyra pressed the Phantom Core into his chest.

The moment it touched him—

The entire chamber shook.

A deep groan echoed through the walls.

And then—

The heart—the one the monolith had stolen—

Began to change.

It twisted, contorted, expanded—

And then took shape.

Not as a human heart.

Not as a fragment of memory.

But as a miniature version of the Titan.

A cold, suffocating dread settled in Lyra's stomach.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Then—

The monolith cracked.

A deep thunderous shudder reverberated through the chamber.

And beneath them—

A hidden door split open.

A spiraling staircase descended into the abyss.

And from below—

The sound of six synchronized heartbeats.