The door pulsed faintly, as if it had its own heartbeat. It called to him—not with a voice, but with a pressure, low and rhythmic, pulling at his thoughts like unseen fingers threading through his mind.
Cecilion stepped slowly, reaching again, hesitant. But he knew… he couldn't leave it untouched. He had to make a choice.
His fingers brushed the door knob. The moment he made contact, the world tore itself apart. The forest vanished in an instant. The masked figures evaporated like mist before he could even shut the door behind him.
He was somewhere else now.
Time unraveled. Air thickened until it felt like syrup in his lungs. Cecilion stood in a place that defied reason—part ruin, part cathedral, part fever dream.
The stone floor beneath him was carved in endless spirals and jagged glyphs, faintly glowing like embers smothered under ash. The walls breathed, shuddering inward and outward, as if the entire structure were alive and barely holding itself together.
