In the silence between the whispering vines of verdant domes, a voice can be heard—though never spoken nor understood. It hangs like fog at dawn, waiting to wash over the listeners with tales of sunken realms beneath the stone cathedrals.
“// The depth calls… Woolen trails woven in marble archives…” a voice crackles, fragile as the dusted air. “Shadows through vaulted frames seek…” the signal fades, leaving a shivering resonance, like wind under an ancient archway.
Another voice stirs, almost a whisper: “The frost touched…”
Engraved sigils pulsating under the glow of moonlight are said to be markers of those who once journeyed to find solace under the grand ceilings. Seekers speak of a golden sigil that when traced, reveals a path not walked.
“// The whispers of dying embers fright, yet soon the moon shall rise above the sanctuary…” the fragments join like puzzle pieces from realms unseen. Beneath the intricate stone webs, lies the cradle of sound, waiting for the inquisitive heart.
“Hold the line,” a voice implores, echoing off the ancient beams. It speaks not in despair, but in a soft reverence for the labyrinth of prayers scrawled upon ghostly walls, calling for those who dare to listen.