The mill's interior smelled of damp wood and mildew, the faint creak of the beams overhead an eerie reminder of its age. Rowan's lantern flickered as he led the way, its shifting light revealing the trapdoor half-hidden beneath layers of dust and debris.
Elara crouched beside him, her fingers trembling as she traced the engravings on the silver key. With a soft click, the lock gave way, and the trapdoor swung open with a groan. The narrow staircase spiraled into the earth, the air below carrying a chill that made her shiver.
Rowan gestured for her to descend first, his expression tense. She moved carefully, the slick steps demanding her full attention. When her feet touched the stone floor, she froze.
The chamber was circular, lined with shelves bearing ancient tomes and jars filled with strange substances. A wooden table stood at the center, cluttered with scrolls and artifacts whose purposes she couldn't begin to fathom. The air hummed faintly, charged with an energy she couldn't explain.
Rowan joined her, his gaze sweeping the room. "Maeve's study," he murmured.
Elara approached the table, her fingers brushing the nearest scroll. Its inked symbols seemed almost alive, looping and curling in intricate patterns. Rowan leaned closer, his brow furrowing.
"These are sigils," he said. "Older than anything I've seen. They're not just dangerous—they're meant to bind something."
Elara's breath caught as a faint metallic clink echoed in the chamber, followed by a whisper that made her skin crawl. Rowan's hand moved to his dagger, his voice low and tense.
"We're not alone."