The long corridor stretched endlessly, each torch flickering with an unnatural greenish flame that hissed as if alive. The group's footsteps echoed in rhythm, a strange cadence of determination, exhaustion, and thinly veiled irritation with each other.
"Still no Lumiel," Veyra muttered under her breath, her hand tightening around the hilt of her blade. "We've been running in circles. Or worse—walking straight into traps that pretend to be Lumiel."
Kaelin snorted. "If I see another priest try to mimic Lumiel's voice, I swear I'll—"
"—trip on your own pride?" Daryon cut in, smirking.
"Shut it."
Isyra laughed lightly, though the tension in her eyes betrayed unease. "Arguing means you're all still alive. That's good enough for me."
They pressed forward.
