The shadows lengthened as Damien and Marek moved through the winding catacombs beneath the ancient sanctuary, the only sounds their footsteps and the low hum of the scepter in Damien’s hand. Lena followed, keeping her distance from Marek, her mistrust evident in the tight line of her jaw. The air was thick with the scent of mold and something older—like time itself had decayed in these halls.
As they descended further, Damien felt a strange pull, an inexplicable familiarity with the place, as though he had walked these corridors before. Flashes of images, moments half-remembered, flickered through his mind: a laughing face, the grip of a hand on his shoulder, whispers he couldn’t make out. The memories faded just as quickly as they came, leaving him disoriented.