The ancient staircase seemed to descend forever.
Every step echoed through the abyss, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the oppressive darkness below. The battle raging above had faded into a distant rumble, like thunder beyond the horizon.
Only four figures continued downward.
John led the way.
Behind him came Aerion, his silver sword casting a gentle glow across the crystalline walls. Lythriel walked with her spear resting across her shoulders, though her eyes never stopped scanning their surroundings. Sylvara remained at the rear, occasionally touching the walls as she studied the countless runes carved into the crystal.
The air grew colder.
Not the ordinary chill of underground caverns.
This cold carried age.
It was the kind of cold found inside forgotten tombs and abandoned temples—air that had remained undisturbed for countless millennia.
John frowned.
"This place feels..."
"Ancient?" Aerion supplied.
John nodded.
"No."
He looked around carefully.
