The great stone archway stood open, a dark mouth leading deeper into the temple. The golden light from the Chamber of Echoes faded behind them as they descended the new staircase, leaving them once again in a profound and utter darkness.
Rhys's Voidheart Flame flared to life, its steady, shadowless light pushing back the gloom.
The air here was different. It was cold, still, and incredibly heavy. The chaotic, psychic whispers of the mire were gone, but the focused, malevolent presence of the Weaver was a thousand times stronger.
It was like they had stepped out of a noisy, crowded street and into the silent, waiting throne room of a hungry king. This was the heart of its lair.
The staircase ended in a vast, dark space. It was not a room or a chamber. It was a void. They were standing on a small, stone platform that was floating in an endless, black emptiness. Far below, and all around them, were faint, shimmering lights, like a sea of distant, sleeping stars.
