The chamber was silent—too silent.
Darian stepped into the high hall, sword drawn, the air thick with magic and memory. The Archon stood at the center of the ancient sanctum, a specter of history clad in void-silk, his bone mask cracked down the middle like a skull long forgotten by time. All around them, the shadows trembled as if holding their breath.
The runes on the walls pulsed with ancient energy, lighting up the floor beneath Darian's boots with an eerie blue glow. It felt like walking on the veins of a dying god.
Sareth entered behind him, staff at the ready. "This place… it's older than Nareth. Older than the kingdom."
The Archon didn't move, but his voice filled the room like thunder whispered through silk.
"You've come far, Darian. Too far. And yet you still carry the same flaw your ancestors did."
Darian's grip tightened around his sword. "And what flaw is that?"
