Don controlled his descent in the final few meters.
Telekinesis wrapped around his body like an invisible harness, slowing the fall until the strain tugged at his temples.
He released the hold and dropped the last short distance into a crouch, boots meeting stone with only a faint **~scrape~**. The discomfort faded quickly.
He rose, senses sharp.
The tomb opened around him in faded splendor.
Ancient Persian artistry covered the walls—delicate reliefs of floral vines and mythical birds interwoven with geometric patterns in once-vibrant lapis and gold leaf.
Arched ceilings rose high, supported by carved columns shaped like slender date palms.
Faded murals depicted the princess in flowing robes, attended by servants and surrounded by symbols of the House of Zahiri: stylized suns and crescent moons.
Dust and age had dulled the colors, yet the craftsmanship remained breathtaking.
Modern intrusion was present through the beauty. Metal scaffolding braced weakened sections.
