The Origin of Shadows

In the deepest heart of midnight's embrace, a whisper echoes. "We are," it asserts, a voice carved from the very marrow of the dark. Phantoms step lightly, their footsteps mere sighs upon the cobbled path leading downwards, into the catacombs of dreams. This place is a sanctuary for the lost, a cradle for memories that never were and always will be.

Through cracked walls, ivy chokes the remnants of ancient stone, binding history and oblivion in a lover's embrace. The air is thick with the scent of time, aged like fine wine that ferments in the vaults of a god who has forgotten their name. Here, books writhe, their pages dancing to the rhythm of a breeze that carries no origins and no ends, only the journey itself.

The Offering

Here, by flickering candlelight, the altar of the forgotten cradles an offering: a dagger, not of steel but shadow, not forged but born of the unspoken. A word upon the lips, a spell cast in silence. The sigil beneath it pulses, a heartbeat in the underworld.