Alpha dove first into the fissure, her black blade carving a trail of violet light into the darkness. The air turned viscous, as if time itself slowed down.
Cliff felt his eardrums vibrate — a hum no longer in the stone, but in his head. Guttural syllables, impossible to reproduce, whispered by a voiceless voice.
The descent led them into a cyclopean cavern. Columns of basalt streaked with luminescent veins — blood red, poison green — rose toward an invisible vault. But that wasn't the worst of it.
The ground was coated with a black, glossy substance, pulsing gently, like tar. In places, shapes took form: humanoid silhouettes frozen in poses of terror, mouths open in silent screams.
"Don't touch the substance," Alpha warned, skirting a pool with palpable caution. "It's Black Echo. Solidified memory of their victims."
Dax snorted, but the laugh lacked conviction. "Perfect. Gelatinous ghosts."
