The moment Marron crossed fully beneath the arch, the world shifted—not with force, but with agreement.
The air thickened just enough to be noticeable. Warmer, yes, but also heavier, like steam without moisture. The stone beneath her boots changed texture, smoothing from weathered grit to something worn by hands rather than feet.
Behind her, the arch remained.
Ahead, the dungeon opened.
It was not a corridor.
It was a kitchen.
Not a single kitchen, exactly. More like the idea of one, stretched wide and given architecture. Long stone counters ran along the walls, their surfaces etched with shallow grooves from centuries of chopping and kneading. Shelves rose high, holding jars sealed with wax, baskets of dried herbs, sacks of grain stacked with careful intent rather than inventory logic.
No monsters lunged. No traps snapped shut.
The silence here was different from the vaults and ruins Marron had known. It was not tense. It was expectant.
