The chamber echoed with silence, the air heavy with age and moisture.
Water dripped steadily from the ceiling into the dark lake behind them, each drop a whisper in the quiet gloom.
Ethan stepped forward, toward the fractured wall, eyes drawn to its jagged veins like a moth to flame.
The wall didn't look like it had collapsed under the pressure of time or nature. No, there was precision in the way it had broken—lines too clean, arcs too intentional.
Like scars etched by a blade rather than cracks carved by age.
Ethan knelt, gloved fingers brushing against the dust-caked surface.
As the grime peeled away, deeper grooves revealed themselves beneath, forming a swirl of cuts—interwoven patterns that intersected like a deadly dance.
"These aren't just random breaks," he murmured, brow furrowed. "They're sword marks."
Reyna stepped up behind him, arms crossed, her eyes narrowed like a predator surveying prey. "You sure?"
