The door behind the pantry had always been sealed.
Lyra hadn't paid much attention to it—just an old cellar door, too warped to open, half-covered in dust and dried herbs. But now, with the dreams sharpening and the whispers curling behind the walls, it felt different. Like the Hollow was offering her a key she didn't know she held.
Elias shined his lantern as she ran her fingers along the edges of the door. There—barely visible—a faint symbol carved into the frame.
A sigil of binding. The same one from the vault.
"This wasn't just storage," Elias muttered.
"No," Lyra said, "this was containment."
---
It took nearly an hour to pry the door loose. The moment it groaned open, a rush of cold air spilled out, thick and metallic.
Lyra covered her nose. "It smells like—"
"Earth and iron," Elias finished. "Like a crypt."
They descended together, each step creaking. The stairs wound deep below the house, far deeper than expected. Roots twisted along the walls, some pale and pulsing like veins.
Then the stairwell ended.
The room before them was low and round, the ceiling arching like the inside of a ribcage. Shelves lined the stone, filled with broken jars, scraps of parchment, and bones.
And in the center: a circle of black soil.
Fresh. Undisturbed.
---
Lyra stepped to the edge.
Something had been buried there. Or maybe… something was still growing.
She reached into her coat and removed the silver dagger.
Elias whispered, "You're not thinking of—"
"We need to know what's down there."
She knelt, digging slowly with the blade. Inch by inch, the soil gave way.
Then—clink.
Not bone.
Metal.
She pulled it out carefully. A mask, twisted and rusted, shaped like a hollow-eyed face.
"Elira?" she breathed.
"No," Elias said, staring at it. "That's not hers."
Something stirred in the shadows.
Lyra rose slowly. "Then whose is it?"