The forest opened slowly, like a wound revealing its deepest scar.
At first, it was subtle—less light filtering through the canopy, fewer living sounds. The root fragment at Argolaith's side glowed steadily, but the air around them grew cold. Not the cold of wind or season.
This was the chill of memory.
Ancient.
Buried.
Unwilling to be remembered.
As they stepped beyond the final veil of mist, the trees gave way to a clearing.
There, half-swallowed by earth and vine, lay a temple.
Its bones were of dark stone, veined with silver, carved with patterns that no longer held their shape. Obelisks surrounded it, toppled and cracked, and the stairs leading into its core were worn smooth by time and something heavier than footsteps.
"This is it," Argolaith said, voice barely more than a whisper.
Thae'Zirak hovered silently overhead.
Kaelred crossed his arms, eyeing the broken spires. "Looks more like a tomb than a temple."
