"Beneath the roots lies not silence, but the echo of every step taken above them." , line from a ruined monastery inscription.
The cavern did not breathe, it remembered.
The air pressed heavy upon Leo's shoulders, thick as damp cloth, carrying with it the scent of moss, wet stone, and an ancient dust untouched by the sun. Every inhalation seemed to drag centuries into his lungs, as though he were not merely standing beneath a tree but beneath the weight of an entire forgotten age.
The faint veins of green light pulsing along the oak's roots bled their glow into the chamber, painting everything in a sickly pallor. Shadows elongated across the woven walls of living wood, their shapes crawling and shifting like memories clawing their way back from oblivion.
At the heart of it all lay the altar, its stone cracked yet enduring. Resting atop it: the skull.
Leo's breath hitched.
