The corridor beyond the mural chamber sloped downward into a long, spiraling descent. The architecture changed with each level. At first it was carved stone, runic lines illuminated by slow pulses of mana.
Then the stone thinned into something crystalline, effervescent with buried power. The walls shimmered faintly when they passed, as though reacting to Lindarion specifically—recognizing him, matching the subtle resonance of his presence.
Kherael walked ahead, lantern swinging gently. The blue-silver glow emanating from it guided them deeper, but no one missed the fact that it didn't shine on the floor or walls—it sank into them. As if the lantern was feeding the city, not lighting it.
Nysha whispered, "This entire place feels alive."
"It is," Kherael said without turning. "The city is an organism of stone, memory, and light. A living archive. A vessel meant to contain truths too heavy for mortal minds."
