Bruno's Hidden Passageway

The narrow passage coils behind the gaudy gold-framed portrait like a held breath, lit only by the dying sparks that drift from Mirabel’s candle. Plaster gives way to raw brick under questing fingertips, the air thick with the scent of old cedar and damp earth. Treads worn smooth by furtive feet descend into the mountain’s flank, every stair groaning in protest under Bruno’s deliberate step. Doors gleam with peeling gilt that once matched the portrait, now tarnished to the hue of bruises, sealing the world above that clings to superstition and crumbling magic.