Naeria led the way through a final winding passage, her fingers tracing symbols on the wall that made the stone glow briefly before fading back to darkness.

The blue-green light from Sylas's blade cast eerie shadows that danced across ancient carvings as they descended deeper into the labyrinth.

"Almost there," she murmured, her voice echoing slightly in the confined space. "The Cathedral's reach ends where the old stones begin."

Soren stumbled, his legs still weak from days of captivity and the Flame's embrace. The shard against his chest pulsed with cold certainty, Valenna's presence a steady comfort after the muting effect of the scripture-chains.

'She leads us deeper than most living souls have ventured,' Valenna whispered. 'Watch her carefully. Knowledge-seekers are rarely satisfied with what they find.'

The passage widened suddenly, opening into a chamber that made Soren halt in his tracks. Unlike the austere architecture of the Cathedral above or the geometric precision of the ancient undercity, this space had been transformed into something entirely different, a fusion of library, workshop, and what appeared to be a makeshift laboratory.

Stone tables lined the walls, their surfaces covered with instruments of brass and silver, crystal fragments that caught the light in strange ways, and scrolls weighted down with small carved figurines.

Shelves had been constructed from salvaged wood and metal, bowing slightly under the weight of countless books and manuscripts.

Some volumes appeared ancient, their bindings cracked and pages yellowed; others looked surprisingly new, ink still glistening on open pages.

Brass lamps hung from chains bolted into the ceiling, their light steadier than torches but somehow more intimate, creating pools of amber warmth in the otherwise cold chamber.

The air smelled of old parchment, ink, metal, and something else, herbs perhaps, or chemicals Soren couldn't identify.

Most striking were the walls themselves. Every available surface had been covered with drawings, diagrams, and text in multiple languages.

Some sections contained neat, precise script; others held frantic scrawls that crawled across stone like desperate insects.

Connecting lines had been drawn between seemingly unrelated sections, creating a web of associations that made Soren's head spin.

"My sanctuary," Naeria said, watching his face with those sharp gray eyes. "Not as grand as the Cathedral's libraries, but considerably more accurate."

Sylas's assassins positioned themselves near the entrance, their hooded figures becoming nearly invisible as they melted into shadows.

Sylas himself remained by the doorway, his curved blade now sheathed, those green eyes scanning the chamber with practiced efficiency.

"You have one hour," he told Naeria, his perfect mouth set in a hard line. "Then we move again."

She nodded without looking at him, her attention already fixed on Soren. "More than enough time for preliminary assessment."

The casual way she said it, as if he were a text to be analyzed or a specimen to be dissected, sent a chill through Soren that had nothing to do with the shard against his chest.

As Sylas withdrew to speak with his assassins, Naeria began to circle Soren slowly.

Her gray eyes moved over him with clinical precision, taking in every detail from his disheveled appearance to the way he favored his injured shoulder.

Her ink-stained fingers twitched occasionally, as if itching to take notes.

"You should be dead," she said abruptly, stopping directly in front of him. "The Flame burns all things... except you."

The bluntness of her assessment caught Soren off guard. He straightened despite his exhaustion, refusing to be diminished by her scrutiny.

"I'm aware," he replied, his voice rougher than intended. "I was there."

A hint of something, not quite a smile, touched her lips. "Indeed you were. And what did you feel when it embraced you? When the fire that has consumed heretics for centuries decided you were... different?"

The question struck too close to memories still raw and disorienting. Soren looked away, his gaze falling on a diagram pinned to the nearest wall, concentric circles surrounding what appeared to be a stylized flame.

"I felt..." He hesitated, uncertain how to describe the sensation. "Like it recognized something. Not me, but something in me."

Naeria's eyes sharpened with interest. She moved to one of the stone tables, her movements suddenly more animated, more focused. "Did you hear voices? See visions? Many texts describe the Flame's embrace as... revealing."

Soren thought of the fragmented images that had flashed through his mind, the throne of blades, the dragon's shadow, the burning crown. Things he had never seen, yet somehow knew. But caution held his tongue. He had already revealed too much to too many.

"Why are you so interested?" he countered, watching her hands as they moved across the table's surface. "What does it matter to you what I saw or didn't see?"

Naeria selected an instrument from the table, a thin rod of etched metal that tapered to a needle-fine point. She held it up, examining it in the lamplight before turning back to him.

"Because you are proof," she said, her voice carrying a sharp edge of triumph. "Proof the Church fears above all else, that their Flame can be stolen."

'She seeks to peel you open,' Valenna whispered, her voice colder than usual. 'This girl sees you as text to be translated, not flesh to be preserved.'

Naeria approached with the metal rod, her eyes fixed on Soren. "I need to test your resonance."

Soren stepped back, one hand rising protectively to cover the spot where the shard rested beneath his shirt. "No."

"Don't be foolish," she said, impatience creeping into her tone. "I'm not going to harm you. But I need to understand what protected you from the Flame. What connects you to the old powers."

She gestured at the chamber around them. "Everything here, every text, every diagram, every fragment I've salvaged from places the Church tried to bury, points to what you experienced. The Eternal Flame doesn't spare people by accident."

Soren glanced toward the entrance where Sylas stood in conversation with his assassins. No help there, the assassin leader had made it clear that Naeria's investigation was part of whatever bargain had led to his rescue.

"Fine," he relented, though every instinct screamed against it. "But I set the limits."

Naeria's lips thinned with annoyance, but she nodded. "Sit," she said, pointing to a wooden stool near the center of the chamber. "And remove your shirt. I need direct access to your body."

The command, delivered with such clinical detachment, made Soren's jaw clench. But he complied, sinking onto the stool with legs that threatened to give out entirely.

The simple act of removing his ruined shirt sent fresh pain lancing through his wounded shoulder.

The shard gleamed against his skin, its blue-black surface catching the lamplight in ways that seemed to bend rather than reflect it.

The size of his palm, its edges had gradually smoothed over the months he'd carried it, as if adapting to his body, or his body to it.

Naeria's breath caught audibly at the sight. For the first time, her composed demeanor cracked, revealing naked hunger beneath the scholarly facade.

"Extraordinary, a shard…" she whispered, leaning closer. "A perfect resonator."

She placed the metal rod on a nearby table and returned with an array of tools, crystal fragments, small metal implements, and what appeared to be parchment covered in script so ancient the letters seemed to crawl across its surface.

Without asking permission, she brought a crystal shard near his chest. The moment it came within inches of the metal embedded in his skin, both began to glow, the crystal with amber light, the shard with its familiar blue-cold radiance.

Sparks arced between them, neither hot nor cold but somehow both, dancing across the space with minds of their own.

Soren felt the shard pulse against his chest, Valenna's presence surging forward with sudden alertness.

'Old tongue,' Valenna whispered, her voice taking on a strange resonance. 'She works with fragments of power she cannot possibly understand.'

The crystal in Naeria's hand began to emit a low, pulsing hum. She watched the reaction with fierce concentration, her gray eyes reflecting the dancing lights.

"What did you feel when the Flame bent toward you?" she asked again, this time more insistent. "The texts speak of visions, memories not your own, places you've never been."

Soren gritted his teeth as the resonance between crystal and shard intensified, sending uncomfortable vibrations through his chest. "Why should I tell you anything? I don't even know who you are beyond a name the Church fears."

She switched the crystal for a thin piece of metal inscribed with spiraling text. The moment it came near the shard, frost formed along its edge, spreading inward until the inscriptions glowed with cold blue light.

"I am someone who spent years being told I was wrong," Naeria replied, her attention divided between her instrument and his face. "That the Flame was divine, perfect, absolute in its judgment." Her voice hardened. "I am someone who discovered the truth, that it's older than their Church, older than their faith, stolen and claimed as their own."

She leaned closer, close enough that Soren could see flecks of silver in her gray eyes. "And you are living proof I was right."

The metal in her hand suddenly grew too cold to hold. She dropped it with a hiss of pain, flexing fingers that had gone white with frost-burn.

'This girl seeks to carve pieces from you,' Valenna warned, her voice sharp with something that might have been concern. 'She is not ally, she is hunger.'

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