Each step groaned underfoot. The walls were carved, but the symbols were old, pre-language, more like shapes pressed into clay. Even his system didn't bother translating. It just pulsed faintly, as if watching.
Twenty-five steps.
The temperature dropped.
The air thickened.
Lindarion didn't light a torch. He didn't need to. His divine affinity let him see enough, faint silver glows outlining edges, highlighting traces of residual energy.
At the bottom, the stairwell opened into a long chamber.
It wasn't grand. Not ceremonial.
Just a room.
Stone shelves lined both sides. Shattered relics sat in piles, broken staves, rusted weapons, chunks of crystal, and worn armor pieces too warped to identify. In the center was a plinth, waist-high, empty except for a half-melted bowl of obsidian.
Ashwing sniffed once. "This feels like a tomb."
"No bodies."
"Then a prison."
Lindarion walked the perimeter. No murals. No offerings. No carvings to suggest worship.
