The cavern's oppressive warmth clung to Song's skin like a second layer, the air thick with a metallic tang that set his nerves on edge. Each step echoed in the vast grotto, the sound swallowed by the immense space. The glowing blue runes overhead cast eerie shadows that danced across the smooth stone floor, their patterns shifting as if whispering secrets Song couldn't grasp. The slaves around him shuffled forward, their faces pale, eyes darting like cornered prey. Even Kael, still caught in the warriors' unnatural control, moved with a jerky gait, his earlier hysteria replaced by a trembling silence that spoke of dread.
Song's mind raced, piecing together fragments of their situation. The warriors' black armor gleamed faintly, its etched runes pulsing in sync with those on the ceiling. They're connected, he thought, his single-stripe tattoo tingling with a faint warning. The slave collar around his neck remained dormant, its silence unnerving. Why isn't it restraining me? The question gnawed at him, a puzzle with no clear answer. His heart pounded, urging him to flee, but the warriors' silent presence was a blade at his back, forcing him onward.
The tunnel stretched endlessly, its smooth walls reflecting torchlight in eerie glimmers. The craftsmanship was unnatural—too perfect, too deliberate for human hands. Who built this place? Song wondered, his thoughts racing. The air grew heavier, each breath a labor, as if the earth itself pressed down on them. The other slaves marched in silence, their faces etched with resignation or fear. Song glanced at Kael, whose trembling was now visible even through his controlled movements. He's terrified, Song noted, a flicker of grim satisfaction cutting through his own unease. Good.
Song's thoughts drifted to Kael's brother, the Fifth Overlord whose calm authority had briefly steadied him. Where is he now? The man's absence felt like a missing piece in a dangerous puzzle. Had he been taken elsewhere? Or worse? Song's stomach twisted, the uncertainty fueling his growing dread. The warriors' silence offered no clues, their visored faces unreadable, their movements precise and predatory.
Ahead, a massive shape emerged from the shadows, its silhouette sharpening with each step. Song's breath caught as the structure came into view: a palace of black stone, its spires rising like jagged teeth to graze the grotto's ceiling. The stone was smooth, almost liquid, reflecting the rune-light in a way that made it seem alive. Colossal columns flanked the entrance, each too wide for thirty men to encircle, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns that seemed to writhe when Song blinked. The gates, crafted from a strange greenstone, towered impossibly high, their surfaces etched with dragon motifs that glowed faintly, as if imbued with a life of their own. This isn't just a building, Song thought, his heart pounding. It's a fortress… or a tomb.
The scale was staggering, each column a testament to unimaginable labor. Song's mind spun with questions. Who built this? And why? The palace radiated a power that pressed against his senses, heavy and unyielding, like a storm about to break. It wasn't made for beauty—it was a declaration of dominance, a structure meant to awe and intimidate. A prison for gods, he thought, the idea both terrifying and absurd. His tattoo pulsed faintly, urging him to run, but there was nowhere to go.
The slaves' footsteps faltered as they approached, the palace's aura pressing down like a physical weight. Song felt it too—a creeping dread that whispered of ancient, merciless forces waiting within. His instincts screamed that this place was not meant for them, that they were intruders in a domain far beyond their understanding. The warriors, unfazed, marched forward, their silence more menacing than any shout.
With a low, resonant groan, the massive gates began to open, their movement slow and deliberate, like the awakening of a slumbering giant. The sound reverberated through the grotto, a deep rumble that Song felt in his chest. The slaves froze, their eyes wide with fear, as the gates revealed the interior: a vast hall, its walls of black stone gleaming under a blaze of unnatural light. The air inside was thick, charged with a viscous energy that clung to Song's skin like oil. At the hall's center stood a towering platform, its surface dark as night and smooth as glass, reflecting the light in a way that made it seem almost liquid.
Song's gaze darted around the hall, taking in the scene. Thousands of figures in black robes lined the walls, their faces obscured, their presence radiating power. Warriors of varying ranks, their tattoos hidden beneath their sleeves, stood in disciplined rows, their eyes glinting with cold scrutiny. Song felt their gazes like knives, each one slicing into his resolve. The viscous energy in the air grew heavier, carrying a faint hum that set his teeth on edge. Who are they? he wondered, his heart racing. And what do they want with us?
The slaves glanced around, their movements frantic, searching for any escape. But the crowd of black-clad warriors closed in behind them, a living wall that offered no mercy. Kael, still trembling, moved jerkily, his body caught in the warriors' control. His eyes, wide with panic, darted toward Song, but there was no trace of his earlier arrogance—only raw fear. Song's lips curled slightly. You brought this on yourself, he thought, though the thought did little to ease his own dread.
The warriors led them toward the platform, the crowd parting like a dark sea. Each step intensified the oppressive energy, weighing on Song's legs like lead. His tattoo pulsed weakly, struggling to shield him from the crushing force. The platform loomed closer, its steps sharp as blades, carved from a material like obsidian that gleamed with a faint red hue under the hall's blinding light. Song's breath hitched. This is no ordinary stone, he thought, his mind racing. It's… alive.
Song's thoughts churned as they approached. The platform's surface seemed to ripple, its red undertones pulsing like a heartbeat. What is this place? he wondered, his pulse quickening. The runes on the walls flared brighter, their light casting stark shadows across the hall. The warriors' silence was deafening, their presence a constant reminder of his powerlessness. I have to stay sharp, he told himself, forcing his fear down. I can't let them break me.
As they reached the platform's base, the energy surged, a suffocating tide that threatened to drown him. Song's vision blurred, the hall's light searing his eyes. The viscous force seemed to seep into his very soul, whispering of inevitability, of surrender. No, he thought, his resolve hardening. I won't give in. But as they began to climb the steps, a new sensation stirred—a cold, calculating presence watching from the shadows, its gaze heavy with intent. What's waiting for us up there?