Sealed Reserves

I breached the rear threshold, leaving the garden crags behind to secure the inner corridor. Against the wall sat a heavy oak chest braced by bands of blackened forged iron. Its thick lid hung slightly unseated—an unacceptable gap in the perimeter. I mounted the plinth, planted both clawed hands onto the upper iron strap, and drove downward with my full mass. The dense timber groaned under the impact before slamming flush into the iron rim with a resounding thud. I seized the forged drop-pin and rammed it through the staple. Seams locked. The stronghold guards its depths in disciplined silence.