The Maw was colder than death.
Each step deeper felt to peel the warmth from Ian's skin with invisible fingers, until even the memory of sunlight felt like a lie.
There was no breeze—not remotely, no echo, no life.
Just silence, thick and complete, as if the stone devoured sound.
And yet…
There was something in the dark. It wasn't footsteps. Not breathing.
Hunger.
The path wound downward as if a throat. Runes beat faintly on the walls—red, old, and cracked with age.
They bled light in uneven streams, it were like they reacted to the mana around them.
More than once, Ian could see his own breath flash in the faint glow.
Lyra walked ahead, a knife in one hand, her eyes scanning for traps. Caelen had taken rear guard, occasionally pausing to mark the walls with chalk.
Ian remained in the center, scroll half-unfurled in his left hand, Vowbreaker ready in his right.
