The air ahead of them shifted again—not violently, but with intention. The ground sloped downward into a broad basin where the light dimmed, not from shadow but from depth, as if the world itself were inhaling.
At the center of the basin, something stirred.
It wasn't a creature at first. It was a pattern—lines of faint luminescence weaving together like veins beneath translucent stone. The pattern pulsed in slow, deliberate rhythm, each beat echoing faintly in their chests.
Puddle drifted closer, its glow dimming instinctively. "This place… it's listening harder now."
Caria's hand moved to the hilt of her weapon, not in fear but readiness. "This feels different from before. Less like a trial. More like… an introduction."
As if answering her, the ground rose gently in front of them, forming a low dais. Upon it, symbols etched themselves into the surface—not runes of judgment or challenge, but impressions. Memories.
Rhys stepped forward and felt it immediately.
