Caliste's feet carried him over the threshold with a slow, deliberate tread.
The entrance to the hollow yawned wide and soundless before him, the stone arch above etched with faded carvings that had long since lost their meaning to common tongues. Every inch of the corridor whispered a story too ancient for pages, too heavy for voices. The very air inside the slope was different—cool, mineral, soaked with memory.
As he followed the figure in grey deeper underground, the daylight behind them faded gradually into nothing. No torches lined the walls, yet a dim, pulsing glow emanated from the veins of crystal embedded in the stone. It wasn't magic—at least, not in the way Caliste understood magic. It was something more primal. Like the heartbeat of the world itself had left traces here, and the stone had learned to echo it.
The figure said nothing.
