The end of the corridor wasn't a door.
It was a wall.
A clean, perfect slab of obsidian. No handle. No runes. No lines. Just finality, polished to a shine.
Nathan hit it first.
"Dead end!" he yelled, palms slamming flat against it.
Elara didn't stop running. She pivoted, turned, braced her spear.
Dion dropped into a crouch beside the wall, drawing something sharp from his belt. He didn't say anything.
Flint's shoulders were already squared.
Mae reached the end and spun, eyes wide, chest heaving. "Where—where's the door?!"
"There isn't one," Seraphina said.
She didn't sound panicked.
She sounded furious.
Behind them?
The skeletons advanced.
Not fast.
Not reckless.
Just certain.
Like they'd waited for someone to reach the end first.
Merlin turned last.
No need to see the wall.
He'd already known.
He could feel the trap resetting the second the air changed.
He backed up. One step. Then two.
The skeletons slowed.
All sixteen. Maybe more.
