Within the echoing halls of a long-lost monastery, where candlelight feared to tread, lie the remnants of forgotten scriptures. These ancient texts breathe the musty air of the crypt, singing hymns only the tormented souls can decipher. Their knowledge, once revered, now rots beneath the dust of aeons.
"In the labyrinth of ages, secrets writhe in the nocturnal silence."
Shunned by the winds, the pages tell stories of catastrophes unglimpsed by the eyes of mankind. Beacons of luminous knowledge turn to shadows, slithering in the cracks of stone walls. The wisdom warns us—an omen of doom and persistence, echoing to an audience none dare to hear.
One passage remains cruelly legible:
"Finally, the clock whispered. Liberation, oh cruel jest of fate."
Pendants of ivory dangle from the rafters, whispering secrets only the ancients dare understand. They carve their prophecies onto your soul, dear wanderer, without the mercy of time. You will find prophecy, amid forgotten sigils, a shattered relic of an era that grasped eternal night.