Chapter 62. The Vault Breathes

The chamber was wrong.

That was the first thing she felt—not thought, not saw. Felt.

It wasn’t made of stone, not truly. The floor looked solid but yielded slightly under her boots, like old wood soaked too long in oil. The air wasn’t air—it was dense, rich, heavy with the smell of old cloth and static breath. The kind of silence you associate with churches and coffins.

She took three steps inside.

The door—or lack of one—sealed behind her without sound.

No visible walls, but she knew they were there. Not physical. Not structural. Emotional.

Every fear she’d hidden, every question she’d swallowed—they pressed against her like fog. The chamber was large but shrinking. Lit but without source. It was like walking through a dream from someone else’s skull.

Her footsteps began to echo.

But wrongly.

One step.

A second echo.

Half a breath delayed.

Not following.

Repeating.

She stopped walking.

And som