The howl faded. Not echoed. Just… stopped. Like something let go of the sound mid-breath.
Lindarion turned away from the cracked wall and moved toward a second stairwell hidden behind one of the headless statues. It spiraled deeper, not the same path they'd taken earlier, but similar in design. This one had carvings along the handrail, smoother, more careful. Newer.
Ashwing clung to his shoulder, silent.
The deeper they went, the less the air moved. Every breath felt thin. Not suffocating, just stale, like it had been waiting too long to be stirred.
Fifty steps.
Then sixty.
No light. No wind.
But he kept going.
He didn't like leaving questions behind.
The stairs ended in a chamber smaller than the last. Maybe the size of a banquet hall. The stone here wasn't rough, it was black and glassy, volcanic almost, but shaped. Polished to a sheen that caught even the faintest glow from his divine aura and threw it back like water.
