The heavy brass key slotted into the verdigris-crusted lockplate with a crisp, oily snap.
Barnaby gave the handle a steady push, and the hidden iron door swung open into the dark, revealing a narrow staircase cut straight through the core of the granite bluff.
“The stairs go straight to the sub-cellar of the western ridge,” Garrick Vance whispered, clutching his ledger satchel to his ribs like a shield. “Varga built the command bunker right over the old ventilation shaft. The rear hatch opens behind his bookcase.”
“Then let us make our social call before he returns from his speech,” Kaelen said, stepping onto the first stone riser.
Sera followed immediately, her star-iron pike resting across her shoulder. Barnaby, Mina, and Linnea remained below to guard the warm spring and maintain the vinegar drop-cloths.
The stone staircase was steep and damp, spiraling upward through five hundred feet of solid rock.
For an ordinary mortal or a low-stage cultivator, the climb would have left their calves burning and their lungs gasping for thin air.
For Kaelen, it felt no more taxing than strolling across a flat garden path.
