As Lyerin stepped forward, the air around him seemed to shudder.
Shadows thickened, as though the very light was being swallowed whole.
Darkness unfurled in sinuous tendrils, stretching from unseen crevices, crawling along the ancient stone walls like living ink.
A cold wind hissed through the chamber, making the soldiers' torches flicker and sputter.
The oppressive darkness pressed against their skin, cold as death itself. And then, they appeared—wispy figures, their shapes indistinct yet undeniably menacing.
The dark ghosts drifted upward, clawing their way out from beneath the stone floor.
Their forms shimmered and shifted, sometimes appearing humanoid, other times little more than masses of black mist.
A low, ethereal wail echoed through the chamber—a sound that scraped against the edges of the soldiers' sanity. One by one, their breaths quickened.
The walls of the chamber suddenly felt far too close.
