The ancient subterranean basilica was dark, quiet, and wrapped in the deep gloom of six centuries of abandonment.
In the sheltered center of the high nave, the imperial expedition converted three baggage carts into a fortified redoubt.
Lantern light flickered against the cyclopean pillars, illuminating thirty exhausted soldiers resting upon canvas bedrolls.
A thin ribbon of aromatic woodsmoke rose from the central fire pit, drifting into the vast gloom of the vaulted ceiling.
The wounded guardsmen settled into a quiet routine, their burns and lacerations carefully dressed with the antiseptic bandages Hajin secretly stocked.
Water from an ancient mountain aqueduct dripped steadily into a stone basin, providing an endless supply of pure mineral water.
On a raised pallet constructed from clean canvas tarpaulins and dry wool blankets, Hajin lay completely motionless in deep slumber.
