The inside of the tower was alive.
Not metaphorically. Not spiritually.
Literally.
The walls pulsed faintly, covered in some kind of organic film that writhed when touched by the violet mist drifting from the floor. Each step echoed wetly, as though they were walking across a stomach lining instead of stone. Inigo's boots stuck slightly with each step, like the tower itself didn't want to let them go.
"Disgusting," Korrik muttered, wiping his blade across his cloak like it might be tainted just by the air.
"No more disgusting than Hollowmere," Lyra replied, though her voice lacked humor. Her bow was drawn, arrow nocked. She was tense.
Inigo raised his M4, sweeping his scope left to right. The weapon felt heavier in here, not because of weight, but because of the pressure building in the air. A feeling like walking into a trap.
