The silence in the Temple of the First Intern possessed a physical weight, pressing against Zane’s eardrums like the pressure of deep water.
Huddled in the darkness behind the stone plinth of the statue, Zane forced his breathing to remain shallow and rhythmic.
The air here tasted ancient, devoid of the chemical tang of the Sump or the metallic sharpness of the Spire.
It carried the scent of dry earth, crushed minerals, and something else—a faint, lingering aroma of ozone, like the air after a lightning strike.
Zane pressed his back against the cold stone of the statue’s heel.
Beside him, Wren crouched with her hand clamped over Rin’s mouth, her eyes wide and reflecting the bioluminescent moss clinging to the high domed ceiling.
She held the Purity Shard in her other hand, having
