Deep in the shadow bindings, where light dares not render its will, lie paths not marked on any living map. They twist, unseen, beneath the watchful eye of the moon, whispering to the wind an age-old enigma known only to those who dare tread them.
The cobwebbed corners of old stone cloisters speak in stutters, echoing the breaths of forgotten kings and studied in their rheumy, labyrinthine eyes are secrets long seized by dust. Here, in the throbbing pulse of muted nights, the edges of reality drip slowly like black candles on gilded arches.
A single step, yet the sound reverberates through corridors maintained by echoes alone, mirroring shadows that hide in crumbling facades and ancient doorways. Beneath the rusted hinges and rotted wood, creeping vines speak the language of solitude.