We descended a narrow, dripping staircase where the stone transitioned from smooth obsidian to rough, porous rock that felt wet and clammy.
With every step downward, the temperature shifted, but it wasn't the clean, biting cold of Jerome's private sanctum. This was a suffocating, heavy heat—like being trapped inside the throat of a feverish beast.
By the time we hit the floor of the first subterranean level, the air was a visible haze of dark purple fog.
The air down here was thick, warped by the active decay of the blight. It was an atmosphere that would have melted the lungs of Maegel or the lions within minutes, and even for the demons, this deep inner sanctum was a place of heavy, focused breathing.
But Jerome wasn't struggling. He stood perfectly still, the dark iron lantern in his hand casting long, jagged shadows against the wet stone. His starry eyes weren't tracking the decaying walls; they were fixed entirely on me, watching with an intense, quiet fascination.
