The deeper they went, the darker the air became. The scent of rust and blood mingled with the thick, choking odour of smoke. The tunnels beneath the stronghold stretched endlessly, carved by claws and desperation, lit only by flickering crimson crystals embedded into the walls — each crystal rumoured to contain a trapped soul of one who failed to ascend. The faint light they gave off wasn't comforting; it was haunting, as if the walls themselves whispered every scream ever made in this place.
The sound of dripping echoed through the silence — slow, deliberate. It wasn't water. It was too thick, too heavy. Blood, perhaps. Kia didn't ask. Her boots splashed against it as she followed Azrail, each step leaving faint ripples that reflected that crimson glow like living veins.
