The undercity yawns open as the carriage halts with a groan, the kind that echoes like a ghost's sigh. The driver doesn't bother with ceremony—just flings the door open and gestures lazily toward the steps.
Mel hesitates. A small, almost imperceptible pause. She knows better than to ask where we are; the answer wouldn't make this place any less dreadful. It's a graveyard of the forgotten, buried beneath the glitz of the upper city. And I doubt she's ever seen anything like it.
She steps down, her boots meeting slick cobblestones with a reluctant tap. Zevrin stretches lazily as he exits, the metal hinges of the carriage door creaking like a death knell. I stay back a moment longer, letting the weight of the atmosphere settle over her.
The undercity is like a living thing. Its shadows cling to you, whispering secrets you were never meant to hear. Its damp, fetid air seeps into your skin, and the silence? Deafening.
