The path beyond the archway is a narrow, winding tunnel, the walls made of the same dark, dense stone as the rest of the temple. The air is cool and damp, and the only light comes from the soft, pulsing glow of the compass in Lucas's hand.
We walk in single file, Roland in the lead, his sword still drawn, his body a tense, ready spring. I'm right behind him, my hand on my own sword, my senses straining to pick up any hint of danger. The others follow, their footsteps soft and cautious in the close, confined space.
The tunnel seems to go on forever, a never-ending, twisting maze of stone and shadow. The air grows colder the deeper we go, and the compass seems to be our only guide, its steady, unwavering light a beacon in the oppressive darkness.
