The doors groaned as they swung inward, the sound echoing through the chamber beyond like the death rattle of some ancient beast lurking in the darkness.
Cold air rushed out to meet them, but it carried no stench of decay.
Instead, Nero's nostrils filled with the scent of spices— ones used to preserve the integrity of the dead and resist the foul odors of rot and decay, perhaps.
The scent was sharp, almost medicinal too. Perhaps they were herbs he couldn't name but he did recognize the aromas from the apothecaries in Gor, back when he had to place his parents in the ground when such places had existed.
The scent here was stronger than anything he had ever perceived though.
This meant the preservation was thorough. Clinical, even.
Sergeant Vane stepped through without hesitation, his boots clicking against cobble that had been worn smooth by countless footsteps.
