In corridors of cobweb solitude, where phantoms weave their dreams, a procession stirs beneath the ancient dome.
The temple stands, silent and eternal, a titanic witness to the slow grind of forgotten hours. Beneath its stone skin, an eternal wave ripples through the veins of time—this is the timewave that none can fathom. Embedded in its rhythm is the music of the spheres, a dark lullaby that calls the unsung.
As day bleeds into night, figures clad in the garb of mist march forth. Their faces, indistinct and shadowed, blur into the tapestry of twilight. Each step a note in the symphony of the undercurrent, echoed in the ripples cast by their arcane journey.
For in the catacombs of memory, where even time fears to tread, we find the grimoire of lost whispers. There, in the ink of starlit abyss, the words rest like slumbering phantoms.
"The ritual must be whispered, lest its flames consume the world," a shadow breathes, flickering like the last dying ember.
Venture further into this endless cycle, where beginning and end are but stitches in the same shadowed tapestry. Dare the darkness, if you seek the light.