Beneath the vault of night, the shadows conspired in hushed tones. Old stones, weary with age, cradled secrets of a time lost to the winds of history. A flicker of candlelight danced across the timeworn mural, its colors whispering tales of forgotten deities.
The air was thick with the scent of cedar and something more elusive—a hint of jasmine carried from the unknown beyond. It cloaked the gatherings in robes of eternity, inviting reverence and trembling awe. Dim figures wove among the columns, their attire a mosaic of twilight hues.
"The hour grows late," murmured a voice like the rustling of dry leaves. It was a call to witness, to the unyielding loop of time's embrace. Steps echoed in the silence—a rhythm only half-remembered.
And there, in the center, an altar of obsidian stood, smooth and unyielding beneath the flickering light. A requiem for the unsung, for the whispers of worlds unseen. What lies beyond these whispered walls?
The air moved with words unspoken, threading through the gathering like a familiar melody, binding souls in its ghostly embrace. An unvoiced promise echoed, a glimmer of hope amid shadows. Will we follow the echoes of this night?