In a ruined hall, its ceiling, long since collapsed, allowed the unrestrained brilliance of the sun to pour in, drenching the vast chamber in golden light. The ancient stones seemed to glow, their weathered cracks revealing the slow but unstoppable hand of time.
The walls, once carved with proud sigils and banners, now bore only scars: fissures that ran like veins of age and ruin. The floor of the hall was broken and uneven, the patterned stone long fractured; weeds pushed through the gaps, a quiet testament to nature reclaiming what was once hers.
Several towering pillars, once proud and seamless, now stood crippled, some cleaved in half, others leaning under the weight of old wounds, yet despite the decay, the hall endured. It stood like a relic of defiance, a monument refusing to bow to centuries of ruin.
