The light came first.
Not lamplight. Not fire. Something else — something that rose from the air itself, pale and blue-grey, steady without flicker. His own lamp became useless. He lowered it.
He stood at the threshold and looked.
It was not a chamber.
It was a city.
The passage opened onto a ledge of black stone jutting over a vast space so deep his mind refused to process it as enclosed. His eyes searched for a ceiling and found one — far above, a curved vault of dark rock that caught the blue light and held it like still water holds a reflection.
Below the ledge, terraced levels dropped away into the glow. Buildings. Streets. Squares. Not rough caves — architecture. Deliberate, proportioned, built by hands that understood geometry and load-bearing walls.
