They slipped through the bubble as if crossing the thin skin of a vision. Water slithered from their bodies in slow rivulets, leaving a cold sheen on skin and cloth, like mist clinging to the soul. The transition was almost imperceptible. One breath submerged, the next free in strange, stale air.
Around them, the sea boiled softly against the bubble's edge, but the sounds were muted, as though they stood inside the hollow of a great drum. Every step felt heavier than the last, magic thick in the lungs, old and restless.
Arthur crouched low, fingertips brushing against dusty stone. The floor beneath them breathed faintly, almost imperceptibly, a pulse so slow it felt geological. The air smelled sharp and wrong. Metallic undertones twisted through the scent of wet rock, mingling with the coppery taste of old magic. There was no wind. No distant hum of life. Only the slow, claustrophobic sense that something ancient still listened from the walls.
