The aftermath left us in heavy silence, our weapons still drawn and dripping with ichor that seemed to cling to everything. Sweat clung to our skin, mingling with the grime of the dungeon until we couldn't tell which was ours and which belonged to whatever we'd just slain. The basin no longer pulsed, no longer exhaled that sick rhythm beneath our feet—but none of us moved.
For several long seconds, we simply watched, waiting for the dungeon to reveal another trick, another sudden shift in tension–but nothing came. The chamber remained still, with no wind, no magic, no whisper of hostile intent. Just the slow return of our breathing and the low, echoing drip of water somewhere behind us. The silence didn't last long as the basin began to drain.
