The crypt wasn't on any map. Not in the Brotherhood's archives. Not even in Claire's memories — which, in itself, was alarming.
Saint-Michel had always been a place of layers: cathedrals over ruins, stories over blood. But this passage, revealed behind a crumbling tapestry inside the library's restricted archives, was older. Colder.
Claire descended first, torch in one hand, short blade in the other. Solène followed, still clutching the grimoire they'd taken from Camille's sanctum.
The stone staircase spiraled downward, far beyond the foundations of any Paris Claire had ever known. With each step, the whispers grew louder — voices without mouths, names without bodies.
"It's reacting to the Key," Solène said softly. The reliquary in Claire's pocket pulsed like a second heartbeat.
They reached the chamber.
Circular. Vast. Walls lined with black mirrors that shimmered as if underwater. But the reflections were wrong — Claire saw herself, but younger. Bleeding. Alone. And behind her… Camille. Alive.
She turned. Nothing.
Solène stepped to the center where a stone pedestal stood, half-swallowed by roots and dust. Resting on it: a second medallion. Just like the one Claire carried — but cracked down the middle.
She approached, cautiously. The moment her fingers touched it, a surge of images rushed into her mind — not memories, but possibilities. Echoes of choices never made.
And then a voice. Not from the room, but from inside the mirrors.
"Claire."
She froze. The voice was Camille's — but it wasn't.
It was layered. Echoed. Touched by something deeper.
"Don't give them both. If the Light Guard unites the keys… the Veil will fall."
Claire's knees buckled, but she steadied herself.
"Camille? Are you—"
"No time." The voice was fading, drowning in static.
"He's already close."
Claire backed away from the pedestal. The mirror beside her cracked — a slow, deliberate fracture down its center. From the stairs above, a gust of wind howled through the corridor.
They weren't alone anymore.
Solène read Claire's expression and opened the grimoire. Pages fluttered. She began an incantation.
But the torchlight dimmed.
A shadow stepped into the chamber — cloaked, tall, faceless. From its chest hung a pendant of red velvet ribbon and obsidian glass.
It spoke with a voice not meant for human ears.
"She who carries both keys must choose… loyalty, or truth."
Claire didn't move. The Key burned in her pocket. Her fingers closed around it, unsure if she'd ever let go.