The hiss of the rebreather was the only sound in the world. Each breath was a controlled, mechanical cycle of processed air, a stark contrast to the ancient, silent water pressing in from all sides. Sineus descended, his descent controlled by the line spooling from his belt. The beam of his headlamp cut a narrow, shifting cone through the blackness, illuminating a vertical shaft of rough-hewn stone slick with centuries of damp. Thirty meters. That was the depth of the access point, a forgotten well in a forgotten courtyard of Vatican City. The price of his strategy was this cold, crushing solitude.
The shaft opened into a submerged corridor. The water was frigid, biting through the seals of his drysuit. His light played over walls lined with niches, and from those niches stared the empty sockets of human skulls. An ossuary, flooded and abandoned. He moved forward, fins propelling him with slow, powerful kicks. Visibility was barely two meters, the water thick with suspended silt that swirled like ghosts in his wake. He was swimming through a tomb, a library of bone and forgotten prayers.
He felt for the spot on his belt where his father’s gimbaled compass should have been. The habit was ingrained, a subconscious check for stability. He felt only the smooth fabric of the harness. The memory of the shattered brass and the wildly spinning needle was a fresh wound. He was his own compass now, navigating by a sense he could not explain and a map no one else could read.
Then he saw them. At first, it was just a distortion in the water, a shimmer like heat haze off summer asphalt. As he drew closer, the anomaly resolved into a braided scar of energy woven directly into the stone of the corridor. It was a Memorum ward, a psychic barrier designed to shred the mind of any intruder. To a normal person, it would be invisible. To Sineus, it glowed with a faint, colorless light, a knot of pure, weaponized memory.
He slowed his approach, his breathing steady in the rebreather. He could feel the ward’s purpose: a memory of absolute confusion, of being lost, of every direction being wrong. It was a trap for the mind, not the body. He extended a hand, his gloved fingers stopping just shy of the shimmering field. The water grew colder. He remembered his father’s compass again, not its destruction, but its purpose. A single, objective truth. He held that thought, that memory of perfect, unwavering north, and used it as a shield.
Pushing through the ward felt like dragging his body through a curtain of static and ice. A thousand forgotten whispers scraped at the edge of his consciousness, but his focus held. The price of this passage was a sliver of his own concentration, a toll paid to the silent guardians. He emerged on the other side, the whispers fading, leaving only the hiss of his own breathing. He had passed the first test. He was deeper now, in a place no modern intruder had ever reached.
He navigated two more wards before the tunnel began to slope upward. The pressure lessened. His head broke the surface into a pocket of stale, cold air. He had found it: a dry vault, its entrance sealed by a heavy bronze door, miraculously preserved above the water line. He removed the rebreather, the sudden silence of the chamber deafening after the rhythmic noise of the apparatus. He used a diamond-wire saw to cut the ancient lock, the tool’s high-frequency whine a sacrilege in the profound quiet.
The door swung inward on groaning hinges. The air inside was bone-dry and smelled of vellum and dust. The vault was small, circular, its walls lined with shelves. On a stone lectern in the center of the room rested a single object: a book bound in what looked like cured hide, its surface covered in script that seemed to shift and crawl at the edge of his vision. The Logbook. He had gambled his life on its existence, and he had won.
He crossed the room, his boots silent on the stone floor. As his fingers touched the cover, a jolt of energy, cold and sharp, shot up his arm. The Memorum script within the Logbook resonated with the memory of the Astral Compass still burning in his mind. A flash of brilliant blue-white light, the image of the countdown timer, the coordinates in the North Atlantic—it all flooded his senses. The Logbook was the key. He had it. This was a victory for preservation, a piece of history saved from the coming storm.
He secured the artifact in his waterproof pack and made his way back to the water, his movements efficient and driven by a new urgency. The return journey through the submerged tunnels was faster, his purpose clear. He bypassed the wards with a practiced ease that bordered on contempt. He had the key. Now all that mattered was getting out.
He surfaced in the grotto at the base of the entry shaft, pulling himself from the water onto a wide stone ledge. And froze. The grotto was not empty. It was filled with light. Four tactical flashlights pinned him, their beams blinding. He could make out the silhouettes of four figures in matte black tactical gear, their weapons held in a low, ready position. They were professionals. Silent. Still.
One figure stepped forward, separating from the others. The movements were fluid, economical. The figure was smaller than the others, and as they entered the edge of his own headlamp’s beam, he saw it was a woman. Her face was sharp, intelligent, and completely devoid of expression. Her pistol, a modern polymer-and-steel design, was aimed squarely at his chest.
— That doesn't belong to you, — she said. Her voice was calm, level, and carried the cold authority of someone who had never lost a fight.
He had the key, but she held the lock.
