"The protocols are unraveling! They're not supposed to hunt us. Not like this!"
Draven's sharp gaze flickered toward the elf, noting Vaelarien's phrasing. Not supposed to. The wording tightened his nerves. Someone had changed the rules mid-game, deliberately upsetting ancient safeguards. His mind spun quickly, analyzing possible motives, suspects, implications—each thought a chess piece swiftly moved on the board of his consciousness.
Ahead, a vibrant orange glow seared the walls as they sprinted around a curve, emerging suddenly at the edge of a roaring river of molten quartz. The liquid surged and boiled ferociously, radiating intense heat and casting eerie, rippling reflections along the tunnel walls. Floating across the blazing surface were irregular obsidian scales—dark, slick stepping stones suspended by magic, flickering uncertainly in and out of stability.
