Page 173 of Warlord's Plaything

I’ve never been afraid of the dark.

But this?

This feels alive.

Inside, the air is thick. Wrong. Suffocating.

The walls whisper, the shadows stretch.

And the bodies?—

Gods.

The bodies.

They line the walls, hanging like grotesque ornaments.

Some still wear armor, their corpses twisted, faces frozen in horror.

Others are little more than bones, blackened by time, by magic.

But all of them?—

Every single one?—

Is watching.

Their eyes glow with something unnatural, something not entirely dead.

Waiting.

Listening.

Like Kaelith has made them part of this place.

Like he has woven their very souls into the stone.

"This is worse than I thought,"Xyron mutters.

His voice is sharp.

Cold.

Like he’s trying to hold something back.

Like he’s trying not to lose himself in what we’ve walked into.

We move deeper.

The corridors are too narrow, the walls pressing in, thick with magic.

The further we go?—

The more the air vibrates, the more the shadows crawl.

We are walking into the heart of something unholy.

I hear him before I see him.

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