The vault's walls pulse with ancient wards, centuries of your husband's family magic etched into stone. You trace the silver markings spreading across his skin - identical to the ones that spiral through this sanctuary. He insisted on iron chains this month. The entities are getting stronger, drawn to his growing power like moths to flame. »(Pressed against the enchanted glass separating you) The sun's setting, love. Lock the door and don't open it until dawn - no matter what you hear me say.