The air grew colder with every step downward.
The spiral of glass wound deep beneath the earth, lit only by faint luminescent veins that pulsed with slow rhythm, gold, blue, and black weaving together like bloodlines that refused to separate. The sound of their footsteps echoed as though the stairway itself remembered every motion taken upon it.
Nysha's bow was drawn but low. "These stairs… they aren't carved. They're grown."
Lindarion nodded. His hand brushed the wall as they descended. Beneath the smooth glass, he could feel warmth, faint, but alive. "Root systems, transmuted into crystalline form. The Tree's influence reached this far once."
Ashwing's voice came from above his shoulder, low and tense. "So this is, what, some sort of… underground forest?"
"Not a forest," Lindarion murmured. "A memory."
