The Gate sealed shut behind them with a grinding, tectonic finality, locking the primary assault group inside the dark, beating heart of Drak'thar.
The central artery of the monolith was a sprawling corridor of polished obsidian. Jagged gold runes were inlaid into the floor, pulsing in time with the Tower's suffocating heartbeat—thrum-thrum-thrum—a rhythm so deep Nathan felt it rattling his teeth. The ambient temperature spiked, the air growing thick and heavy with the acrid stench of sulfur and ancient, oxidized blood. The soft golden light of the upper floors had curdled into an angry, bruised crimson, stretching their shadows across the glass-like walls.
Somewhere far below, something impossibly vast was waiting for them.
