The rhythm of footsteps against black stone echoed as Asher moved deeper into the vast hallway, his stride measured, unhurried. The disguise was flawless—no head turned twice, no suspicion lingered. The cultists streamed past him in small groups, carrying offerings of bone, bowls of thickened blood, and scrolls inked in twisted glyphs. They muttered chants under their breath, each syllable threaded with an odd resonance that pressed faintly against his soul.
Asher's eyes, hidden behind Raymam's cracked mask, flicked across everything. He wasn't here to strike—not yet. He was here to learn.
