The whispers linger in the airless corridors,
their echoes bouncing off unseen allies and walls of dust.
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Under the stone arches, the air thickens with tales of yore. Gillette had traced its path here, a solitary figure across the desolate courtyard, the chill of the past gripping her throat, stifling cries from ages long gone.
Enter the CryptA lighthouse stood at the edge, blackened by relentless storms, its beam a forgotten ghost. Could it be, the silhouette of a watchman, ever-vigilant, discernible only to those cursed by the drifting night?