The stairs beneath Saint Orison's were older than the chapel above them. That much was obvious before we reached the first landing. The stone steps had been worn smooth by decades of use, maybe centuries, yet the walls carried none of the usual stains of damp earth, careless torch smoke, or the scratches workers leave carrying crates through narrow passages. They were covered in lines instead, thin grooves carved into the stone in looping patterns, each one connected to another like musical notation stretched across a wall. Some had been filled with faded silver. Others were darkened with something that looked too much like dried blood for me to appreciate whatever artistic intent had gone into it.
The chapel above had been built to look welcoming. The stairway below had been built to listen.
"How charming," I muttered.
