The Hollow's fire did not cease.
It fell without pause, endless, relentless a storm without sky, raining down not fire, but judgment made flesh. Each droplet of argent flame was no drop at all, but a hammer. Where it struck, it branded stone with scars that would never fade, it seared marrow as though flesh and spirit were indistinguishable, and it carved the cavern into something that could no longer be called what it had once been. This was no chamber of witness anymore. This was a crucible a place where eternity melted what it no longer wished to endure. The walls themselves seemed to live, groaning with the agony of being reshaped, their jagged faces trembling as fractures lanced across their bodies like veins of light. No surface remained untouched. No shadow remained unstained. The Hollow was not illuminating it was unmaking.
