The labyrinth shifted around us, the walls pulsing with that sickly green light, the shadows dancing at the edges of my vision. I could feel the weight of ancient magic pressing against my skin, the whispers clawing at the edges of my consciousness. Runa walked beside me, her hand on my arm, her presence an anchor in the storm of illusion.
The volunteers followed behind us, their torches flickering, their faces pale. They had seen the illusions too; I could see it in their eyes, the fear they were trying to hide. The labyrinth showed us what we feared most, and none of us were immune.
But the worst was yet to come.
The passage opened into a chamber, and I stopped.
The walls were covered in murals, paintings so vivid they seemed to move, and breathe. They depicted a battlefield, dark and smoking, the sky choked with ash. Bodies lay scattered across the ground, warriors and monsters alike, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and pain.
