The lift descended past the safe floors without asking permission from my survival instincts.
That was rude.
Stone walls slid upward around the iron cage in slow, grinding layers. First came the gray foundation floors, with their polite training sigils, artificial light crystals, and corridors cleaned often enough to convince rich children that danger could be scheduled. Then the color changed.
Red veins crawled through the stone.
Not painted red. Not mineral red. Wet red.
Bloodstone did not shine. It looked as if the academy had cut the mountain open and decided the wound made good architecture.
