As they stepped through, the world changed, colors bleeding into a green palette. The air shifted; it was heavy with the scent of damp Earth and pine, not the tundra they had embraced for.
Nova's boots sank into the soft, vibrant grass; the ground felt like a spring. The trees loomed all around, their canopies thick, filtering the light into patches that seemed to be dancing across the floor.
Vines curled around trunks, moss clung to rocks, and a faint mist hung low, as if they were in a gothic novel. The dungeon itself felt alive; it didn't feel like the tundra that Marcus had led them onto.
Nova's hand itched again, but he ignored it. He didn't know why his Circle of Pillars was itching so much; maybe, he thought, it was some sort of malfunction or something, but it was far from that.
He scanned the clearing, his ears straining for any sound beyond the rustle of leaves and the distant chirp of unknown birds.
