The faded red canopy above them rippled slightly, casting strange currents of shadow across their faces. Here, the light was murky, filtered through the fabric as if the sun itself hesitated to enter. The air reeked of melted wax, dry dust, and stale incense, laced with that indescribable scent that always haunted places burdened with secrets.
Dylan walked slowly, his footsteps echoing faintly on the uneven stones. The faceless statues, worn down to oblivion, seemed to watch them despite their lack of eyes. Some had bandages tied around their necks; others wore necklaces made of human teeth. An atmosphere of sacred delirium, of decadent oracles.
Jonas said little. He watched. Eyes were everywhere here. Beneath torn cloaks, behind grimy curtains, inside the cracks of crumbling walls. Whispers drifted through the air—elusive. Nonsense syllables. Or maybe too much sense.
