The stairwell groaned under their weight as Yuri and Lira ascended, each step echoing up the narrow spiral. Dust sifted from the ceiling, shaken loose by the shifting pressure still rippling beneath the Temple. The torches lining the curved walls flickered in uneven pulses, as though struggling to keep their flames anchored in this reality.
Halfway up, Lira paused, pressing a hand against the stone. "Feel that?"
Yuri did. A faint tremor—not physical this time, but something brushing the edge of perception, like a cold fingertip dragging along the inside of his skull. He clenched his jaw and kept moving.
"It's following us," she said quietly.
"It's not following us," Yuri answered. "It's tracking the wound. We just happen to be standing near it."
"You sound calm."
"I'm not."
