The air in the corridor didn't just feel heavy; it felt occupied.
Lan Yue's boots clicked against the black stone, the sound unnervingly sharp in the sudden vacuum of the sect's transition. The second bell was still vibrating in her marrow, a low, discordant hum that signaled the end of the grace period. She'd heard that bell twice before in her life. Both times, people had died before the echo faded.
She was starting to think that was less of a coincidence and more of a pattern.
"Still feels like a death trap," Lan Yue muttered, her eyes darting to the flickering shadow-play on the walls. The torchlight wasn't dancing; it was being pulled, stretched toward the ceiling by a gravity that didn't belong to the earth.
Zhao Lingxi walked beside her, her pace measured, her expression a mask of glacial indifference.
"It is," Zhao Lingxi replied.
