It had been a week since the cohort descended into the Canyon's depths. The place was vast, sunless, and strangely hollow. Aside from the spiders that skittered along the canyon walls and the occasional horde of lizard riders, there was... nothing.
Wheeeeeew!
Well—except that.
Every few hours, without fail, a sharp, unaturally long whistle would pierce the air.
They hadn't heard a single sound like it the night they'd camped above the abyss.
But now, whenever that whistle rang out, it carried a weight, like a blade dragged across stone. Chills would ripple down their spines, breath would catch, and eyes would dart toward the shadows.
And for just a moment, fear took hold.
Then, as if under some spell...They'd forget.
For some reason, Damien never forgot.
The whistle echoed in his mind long after it faded from the Canyon—but the others? It was as if the sound slipped through their memories like water through a sieve.
