Dust clung to Ludwig's cloak in a thin, gritty film as he brushed himself off, his gloved fingers working over the folds of dark fabric in absent, methodical strokes. The air in the tunnel still smelled faintly of scorched stone from his earlier spell, mingled with the sour musk of mold and something older, an ancient dryness, like parchment left too long in a tomb. His boots shifted against loose gravel, small pebbles grinding in echoes that carried down the dark throat of the passage ahead.
The tunnel where the Umbrite had come from loomed like an invitation no sane adventurer would accept. It wasn't simply a tunnel, it was a wound in the earth, descending at a steady incline, black as ink, and with a strange hush that suggested it had not been touched by mortal feet for centuries. A breeze from within, colder than the stagnant air behind him, brushed across Ludwig's face and carried with it the faintest metallic tang, blood long since dried, perhaps, or something stranger still.
