The gates of black iron opened on their own, exhaling a breath of cold air. Jack stepped through first, Corvin a silent shadow on his shoulder, Melania gliding behind.
Blue-white torchlight flickered along the vast corridor ahead, throwing restless shadows against walls carved with scenes of forgotten wars.
No guards. No servants. Only the echo of their steps.
The hall stretched like the throat of an ancient beast. Murals showed warriors mid-strike, armies frozen in triumph and ruin, but none of the painted faces bore joy. The silence was complete. So deep Jack felt it pressing against his eardrums like water.
His breath turned to mist.
The temperature dropped with each step forward, as if they were descending into winter itself. Frost began forming along the edges of the murals, and Jack noticed his fingers were going numb despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
