In the chasms of forgotten incense, the dimensions whisper. Hollow echoes dance: shadows cast upon the walls of labyrinthine corridors, each twist a promise unkept, every turn a reflection of echoes unheard.
A lone candle flickers, the flame a restless soul caught between realms, caught between infinite weavings. Beneath the arch of ancient stone, beneath skies that bleed twilight, the night opens its maw—a ritual begins.
With voices carved from obsidian and hymns born of cosmic decay, the circle forms. Hands tremble, not from the chill of ice, but from the caress of fate's fumbling touch. Words fall like petals from the moon, distorting truths into shapes grotesque yet familiar.
Riddle of Ruins: I am more than a doorway, yet less than what lies beyond. What am I?
In the dim, the echoes persist. The air thickens with their breath—wintry and wise, old as the stars and yet newborn with each sigh that trembles upon the lips of the void.
Murmurings of forgotten gods.
Chants of salvation or damnation?
In these circles, the answer revels.