The gear-shaped door didn't creak when I pushed it; it groaned with the sound of a thousand rusted hinges being forced into motion at once. The vibration traveled up my arms, through my chest, and settled deep in my teeth. As the heavy obsidian slab slid aside, the rhythmic ticking that had been a background hum since we entered the temple suddenly surged into a deafening roar.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
It wasn't just a sound; it was a heartbeat. A mechanical, uncaring pulse that seemed to dictate the rhythm of the air itself.
"I really, really hate this place," Tybalt whispered, his voice barely audible over the mechanical thunder. He was gripping the straps of his pack so hard his knuckles were white. "Ren, the air tastes like... like old pennies and dust. Is it supposed to do that?"
