The deeper corridors of the temple were not built, they were grown.
The walls pulsed faintly, as if alive, veins of silver and blue mana threading through dark stone like roots beneath skin. Every step echoed too long, as though the hall itself remembered every sound that had ever passed through it.
Lindarion led, blade drawn but not aflame, its edge humming quietly, the song of restraint. Ashwing perched on his shoulder again, unusually silent, golden eyes flicking nervously from shadow to shadow.
Behind them, Nysha walked with an arrow already notched, her bow drawn halfway though no visible threat lingered.
The air was thick, not just with heat or age, but with something older, a pressure that pressed at their minds rather than their skin.
Ashwing finally broke the silence, his voice hushed. "This place doesn't feel like stone anymore. It feels like… a lung. Like it's breathing."
