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“By squirming out of our dungeon of indifference and wriggling from ourself-centered vault of unawareness, love can conjure up an aura of mental opulence and an inkling of infinity.( "Love as dizzy as a cathedralâ€�)”
― Erik Pevernagie

“She liked the sharp salty smell of the air, and the vastness of horizons bounded only by a vault of azure sky above.”
― George R R Martin

“Would you dare to reach inside the vault of a feral heart?
Glare into the keyhole, eyes bound with intrigue...is it real what we perceive? or does the absent colour leave you lost or decieved?”
― L V HALL

“The chamber was a cool, chill black- as if we'd stepped inside the mind of some sleeping beast. And within its round space gleamed glittering islands of light. Of jewels.

Ten thousand years' worth of treasure.

It was neatly organised, in podiums and open drawers and busts and racks.

'The family jewels,' Rhys said with a devious grin. ...

...carved into the rock was an entire wall of crowns. They each had their own resting place, lined with black velvet, each illuminated by-

'Glowworms,' Rhys told me as the tiny, bluish globs crusted in the arches of each nook seemed to glitter like the entire night sky. In fact... What I'd taken for small faelights in the ceiling high above... It was all glowworms. Pale blue and turquoise, their light as silken as moonlight, illumining the jewels with ancient, silent fire.

'Pick one,' Rhys whispered in my ear.

'A glowworm?'

He nipped at my earlobe. 'Smartass.' He steered me back toward the wall of crowns, each wholly different- as individual as skulls. 'Pick whichever crown you like.'

'I can't just- take one.'

'You must certainly can. They belong to you.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Wings and Ruin

“A tomb is a vault, a vault is a home,â€� Mr. Sadlot said casually sniffing the flower in his lapel. “That’s where the deceased chose to reside and that is where he will be placed.â€� Kekaju and the Hidden Swamp”
― Robert W Sweeting

“What is your heart's combination?”
― Hadinet Tekie

“The room was curved, wide, and empty except for one enormous rock in the center. Easily twice Biddy's height, it glowed with faint green-gold shimmers beneath its smooth surface.
She had seen that light before. Flashes of it in the old oak, when Rowan drew magic through the skin of the tree. And once, in the scrying glass, as a glow on the wall illuminating Rowan as he lay in enchanted sleep in an underground room.
This was it, the room where Rowan had come to steal magic on the night he had nearly never come home. The vault, he had called it. The place where the Council hoarded its wealth like fairy gold.”
― H.G. Parry, The Magician’s Daughter