The air hit me first, damp and earthy, carrying that faint tang of wet stone and moss. It pressed down lightly on my senses, reminding me I was no longer in the training hall. The torchlight embedded in the walls flickered across the cavern floor, catching on uneven stone and throwing long shadows that danced with every movement. My boots scraped against the rough surface, and the weight of my claymore tugging at my belt.
Meredith was beside me, claymore half-raised, her eyes sweeping the cavern with that sharp, measured focus she usually carried, silver armor reflecting the torchlight.
"This is remarkable," she said, awe coating her words. "Are Isobel's illusions always so detailed…?"
I considered her words as I took another tentative step forward. "She's quite the Dark Mage, but this is… a lot."
