Ren's name remained on the wall behind us.
Half-erased. Half-waiting.
That was how the Catacombs worked. They did not kill immediately. Immediate death was honest, and honest things rarely survived long in Aethermere. Gate Eleven preferred preparation. It carved names first, let fear ripen, then built corridors around whatever trembled.
Niko made another mark with bloodstone dust.
This one stayed where he placed it.
For three seconds.
Then it bent into a small arrow pointing deeper.
"Absolutely not," Niko whispered.
"Do not argue with architecture," I said. "It is already winning."
