He found the stair by accident — or maybe because he wasn't looking too hard.
It wasn't red at first glance. Just stone like any other. But the closer he came, the more it shimmered, dark and splotched, like rust bled into granite. Twenty-seven steps, descending beneath a hollowed building marked with bone dust and handprints.
The boy stood at the top for a moment, silent.
Ashur's note had said not to speak. Not to breathe words here.
And yet… something in him already knew.
The steps weren't meant for feet. They were meant for silence.
A place to bring it. A place to leave it.
He descended.
The spiral mark on his chest warmed — not painfully, but in anticipation. Like a heart thudding behind the ribs of something that had once been a person.
The deeper he went, the more the air thinned. Not from lack of oxygen, but from lack of presence. Thoughts felt quieter here. Names didn't want to be remembered. Even the feather, tucked into the lining of his coat, had stopped humming.
It listened. So did he.
At the base of the stairs, the corridor widened into a basin-like chamber. The walls were curved, etched with a thousand overlapping spirals — none complete. Each began cleanly, confidently… then stuttered. Faltered. Broke.
He wasn't alone.
Figures knelt in the dust. Dozens of them, wrapped in gray. Their faces hidden by masks carved from old bone, hollowed and smooth. No mouths. Only a single slit where the ears might be — and even those were filled with ash.
He stepped closer.
None turned to look.
Instead, they rocked slowly, back and forth, as if caught in a memory that no longer belonged to them.
One of them, slightly taller than the rest, lifted its head.
Ashur.
The boy blinked. Ashur's mask was darker than the others — still blank, but cracked slightly along the jaw. A line of ink ran down the side like a tear.
The forger raised one hand and beckoned.
The boy stepped forward.
He said nothing.
They stood face to face in the basin's center. Around them, the masked figures whispered without words. Not prayers. Not rituals.
Absences.
The sound of what used to be said.
Ashur reached inside his coat and withdrew something wrapped in memory cloth.
He unraveled it slowly — reverently — revealing a chisel.
Thin. Pale. Marked with sigils that seemed to shift depending on where the boy looked.
Ashur held it out.
The boy took it.
Its weight was small, but its presence was not.
Ashur placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
Then turned, walked to the curved stone wall, and knelt.
One by one, the masked figures joined him, lining the edge of the basin like witnesses at a tomb.
The boy looked at the chisel.
He understood.
The wall awaited.
Blank space. A spot untouched. Waiting for his spiral.
His own truth. His own unspoken name, carved into the stone beneath those who had knelt before him.
He stepped forward.
Lifted the chisel.
But when the point met stone — the silence changed.
It fought back.
A pressure behind his eyes. A weight inside his thoughts.
Do not speak it.
Do not carve what isn't yet true.
The chisel wavered.
His hand trembled.
Then steadied.
He did not carve a full spiral.
Instead, he etched a curve. Half a breath. A question, not a statement.
And when he pulled back — the wall whispered.
Not in words.
In recognition.
Behind him, the feather in his coat vibrated once, sharply.
The masked figures bowed.
Ashur stood.
And this time, when he removed his mask — the boy saw his face for the first time.
Tired. Lined. Eyes pale with unspoken burdens.
"You held it back," Ashur said quietly. "Good."
The boy said nothing.
Ashur smiled.
"Then we have time."