Light does not descend here; it is exhaled by the bioluminescent mold clinging to the rib-like roots of the Great Weeping Tree. The air is heavy, tasting of damp loam and the cloying sweetness of rot. Every step crunches not on stone, but on the calcified remains of explorers who mistook the silence of the woods for peace. Here, the boundary between masonry and mulch has vanished, replaced by hallways of petrified bark and doors of woven briar.
The deeper one descends, the more the silence is broken by a rhythmic, wet thumping—the heartbeat of the forest floor itself. Gravity seems to warp as roots coil around ancient stonework, crushing the memories of a forgotten civilization into the nutrient-rich soil. This is not a tomb for the dead, but a pantry for a hungry earth that has waited centuries for fresh meat.
