The descent down the staircase was a journey into the belly of a living mountain. The air grew colder, thicker, carrying the scent of ozone, damp rock, and something else—a sweet, cloying odor of decay and psychic exertion. The throbbing hum solidified into a distinct, rhythmic pulse, like the heartbeat of some colossal, slumbering beast.
Specter's red light was their only guide, casting long, dancing shadows that made the rough-hewn walls seem to writhe. The psychic pressure was no longer just an ambient feeling; it began to take shape. Whispers, not in any language, but in concepts—stop, rest, join, consume—brushed against their minds.
"It's getting harder to think straight," Emma muttered, shaking her head as if to clear water from her ears.
"Focus on your breath. On your heartbeat. On the person in front of you," Celestia instructed, her own voice strained but controlled. "Do not engage with the projections. They are bait."
