The light fractures against the obsidian walls, weaving patterns of melancholy. Orbs rotate, unsettling in their orbit. The cry of the ancients is caught in their icy glow. Once, they whispered secrets... now, they merely spin. Adrift in this labyrinth, voices echo like thunderclaps in a desolate void.
Is it a reflection or merely an illusion? You hear the cry, you see the light—a melding of fate, a dance of shadows.
Whispered Echoes Intricate Weavings