Maris stood in the dim chamber, her eyes locked on the robed figure who had confronted them. The room was unnaturally quiet, save for the faint crackling of the luminescent fungi that faintly lit the chamber's walls. Her heart pounded, her breaths short and shallow. She stole a glance at Amberine beside her. Amberine's fists were clenched, the embers of Ifrit's fire dancing along her fingertips, barely illuminating her expression of controlled fury.
Maris didn't need to say it; they both knew it. They needed a plan—a way to escape this nightmare—but the air was so heavy, like the very walls were pressing down on them, squeezing out all clarity from her thoughts. The pressure was more than physical; it was mental, emotional, as though the air itself had become a malicious entity, intent on clouding their judgment and overwhelming their senses.
