Vault of the Remembered

Beneath blood and shadow lies memory.

And beneath memory—regret.

---

The relic hovered, pulsing with steady light. Not warmth. Not welcome.

Recognition.

Lyle stepped closer, every muscle in his body aware that something else was moving just out of sight—beneath the altar, beneath the veil.

The Watchers remained kneeling, motionless, heads bowed like monks in mourning.

Muka shifted closer. "If they're kneeling, then whatever this is… it's not just old. It's royal."

The Bone Claw coiled tighter through Lyle's arms.

> "They remember the one I followed. The one who forged blood into law."

> "Quinn?"

> "No. Before Quinn. Before the vampire kings had names."

Lyle reached out to the relic.

The moment his fingers brushed its edge—

A crack spread through the earth.

The altar sank, pulled downward like a stone in water.

The ruins shifted.

And a staircase emerged where no stone should've yielded—each step bleeding fog and time.

Muka looked at him.

He nodded.

Together, they descended.

---

The vault beneath Korvalis wasn't stone.

It was bone.

Carved ribs arched overhead, forming a cathedral of something long-dead—but revered.

At its center stood a ring of statues—each holding a blade pointed downward. Each statue wore a crown of antlers. Each had no face.

Only masks.

The Codex pulsed in warning.

> [Memory Saturation Field Detected – Mental Anchoring Required]

[Shadow Density: 89% – Maximum Safe Exposure Approaching]

Lyle staggered slightly. A pressure—not physical—began to build behind his eyes.

> "This is where they fell," Bone Claw whispered. "Where the uprising ended."

> "What uprising?"

> "The one that tried to unseat the first Shadow King."

Muka reached the center ring and stopped.

Laid in a shallow cradle of stone was a broken weapon. Half blade. Half staff. Its metal shimmered like it was remembering what it once did.

Lyle crouched beside it.

When he touched it—

He remembered dying.

Not his own death.

Another's.

Hundreds of them. Charging this place. Screaming names long forgotten. Trying to kill what couldn't die.

Lyle staggered, blood at his nose.

Muka caught him. "What did you see?"

"Too much," he whispered. "They sealed the uprising in here. And this..." he looked at the staff-blade, "...was the only weapon that wounded the king."

The Bone Claw growled low.

> "Do not take it unless you're ready to be seen."

Lyle steadied his breath.

> "I'm already being seen."

He lifted the blade.

The shadows howled.

Not around him—within.

And the statues turned. Not their arms. Not their heads.

Their faces.

All masks locked onto him.

And then—spoke in unison:

"The heir walks armed. The wound remembers. The silence breaks."

The vault trembled.

A rift opened in the far wall—etched in teeth and runes.

From it, whispers bled.

And something enormous stirred beyond the threshold.

Muka grabbed Lyle's shoulder. "We need to go."

But the Bone Claw was laughing.

> "Yes. Let it wake. Let it see who you are becoming."

And deep in the vault, the broken mask of a fallen king began to reassemble.

Piece by piece.

Looking for a new face.