The steps into the earth were uneven, ancient, and narrow—cut not by tools, but by will. Asher could feel it with every inch they descended. This wasn't a tomb made by hand. It was a grave born of remorse, carved by someone who wanted to be forgotten.
"Feel that?" he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
Valeris didn't answer, but her eyes narrowed.
It wasn't pressure. It wasn't killing intent. It was... grief. Dense and cold, thick enough to choke on. Every breath became harder, not because the air thinned, but because the very atmosphere rejected the living.
They passed old sigils etched into the walls—flickering with faded light. Scenes played out in ghostly carvings: a sovereign leading armies, his blade slicing through legions. Crowns shattered. Cities crumbled. And finally, the sovereign himself falling—not to an enemy, but to his own blade.
"He took his own life," Asher murmured. "After the war."
"No," Valeris said. "After he won the war."
