The air beneath the Black Iron headquarters felt different.
Older.
Heavier.
The deeper Thomas followed Subastian down the narrow stone staircase, the colder the air became. Every step echoed through the darkness until even the sound of their footsteps seemed swallowed by the ancient walls.
At the bottom of the staircase stood a massive iron door covered in faded symbols. They weren't words Thomas recognized. They looked older than the Black Iron itself.
Subastian rested his hand against the center of the door.
With a deep groan, the ancient mechanism awakened.
Stone scraped against stone.
The door slowly opened.
A stale breath of air rolled out from the darkness beyond, carrying the scent of dust, candle wax, and centuries of forgotten history.
Thomas stepped inside.
Rows upon rows of shelves stretched into the darkness. Ancient scrolls lay bundled together with worn leather straps. Cracked books sat stacked beside faded journals whose pages had turned yellow with age. Portraits lined the stone walls, their painted faces silently watching anyone who entered.
Only a handful of candles burned throughout the chamber.
Their flames flickered gently, casting long shadows across the room.
Thomas slowly turned his head, taking everything in.
"So this..." he whispered.
"...is where you've been hiding everything."
Subastian walked calmly through the room as though he had visited it a thousand times before.
"The legacy of the Black Iron was not born overnight," he said quietly.
His voice echoed throughout the chamber.
"It was forged in blood... betrayal... and stolen power."
Thomas followed behind him.
Every portrait they passed seemed to carry the same expression.
Pride.
Pain.
Regret.
Until one painting made him stop.
A woman stood proudly beneath a dark sky.
She wore elegant clothing stained with dirt and dried blood. Long black hair rested over one shoulder, while deep black smoke curled gently around her arm.
Her eyes refused to surrender.
Even through old paint, they burned with defiance.
Thomas felt something tighten inside his chest.
"...Great grandmother."
The words escaped before he realized he had spoken them.
Subastian stopped walking.
"Betty."
He turned toward the portrait.
"The first true inheritor of Darkness after Mournveil."
Silence settled over the room.
Thomas couldn't pull his eyes away from the painting.
She looked...
Familiar.
Not because he had ever seen her.
Because parts of her face reminded him of someone else.
Tomora.
Subastian's voice broke the silence.
"The Black Iron captured her."
His tone remained calm.
"She endured years of imprisonment."
The room seemed to disappear around Thomas.
His imagination painted the missing pieces.
Chains.
Cold stone.
Darkness.
A woman refusing to kneel.
Then—
Hands.
Dozens of them.
Holding her down.
A blade.
A scream.
Black smoke burst from her arm as something living was ripped from her body.
Thomas instinctively clenched his fists.
"Wasn't there another way to do it?"
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
Subastian didn't even look at him.
"I'm afraid not."
A brief pause followed.
Then his eyes shifted toward Thomas.
"But don't interrupt me when I'm talking."
Thomas lowered his gaze.
"...Sorry."
Subastian continued walking through the archive.
"But blood remembers."
He stopped beside another shelf filled with weathered scrolls.
"Her lineage survived."
His fingers brushed across a faded family record.
"Through her son."
Another step.
"Who later had a daughter."
He glanced toward Thomas.
"Your mother."
Thomas swallowed quietly.
His heart beat louder with every sentence.
Subastian continued.
Time itself seemed to move as he spoke.
Villages rose.
Kingdoms collapsed.
Wars consumed the land.
Generations lived...
and died.
Yet one bloodline continued moving forward.
Waiting.
"One hundred and thirty years later..."
Subastian's footsteps stopped.
"...that bloodline produced another inheritor."
Thomas already knew the answer.
"...Tomora."
The name echoed softly through the ancient room.
For a brief moment Thomas pictured the young man standing alone beneath a burning sky.
Purple eyes.
Battle scars.
Hatred that refused to fade.
Subastian folded his hands behind his back.
"As you already know..."
"The blood carried through generations becomes weaker."
He looked toward one of the dusty scrolls resting on a pedestal.
"Original veins lose their purity every time they're inherited."
Thomas nodded slowly.
He knew that much.
Elemental blood diluted with each generation.
Power faded.
Abilities weakened.
It had always been that way.
"But this..."
Subastian's voice grew quieter.
"...is different."
Thomas looked up.
"This vein wasn't passed from parent to child."
Subastian's eyes narrowed.
"It has only had three known users."
He raised three fingers.
"Mournveil."
He lowered one.
"Betty."
Another finger lowered.
"And now..."
He looked directly at Thomas.
"Tomora."
The room became silent.
Thomas stared blankly ahead.
Only...
Three?
That wasn't inheritance.
That was preservation.
The original Darkness Vein had barely changed.
Its power had survived.
Its purity remained almost untouched.
Thomas slowly exhaled.
"So..."
He looked toward Subastian.
"...that's the deal, huh?"
A faint smile crossed Subastian's face.
"Exactly."
Thomas wandered farther into the archive.
until Subastian stoped infront of a black door.
"This is were everything will e reveled."
Subastian opens the door while saying those words and Thomas blindly follows.