Twilight lingered in a hush of green as Draven and Sylvanna slipped into the Hall of Petals. The vaulted passage felt like a living lung, inhaling dusk and exhaling a cool breath that smelled faintly of crushed lilies and ancient ink. High overhead, arch‑ribs of ivy‑fused marble caught the last violet light, and between those ribs bloomed murals—whole gardens chiseled into stone, each petal threaded with silver runes that pulsed in a slow, echoing heartbeat.
Draven's gaze swept the corridor the way a surgeon studies an exposed vein. Every petal, every rune, every delicate shimmer of reflected light mapped itself inside his head. Floating between the murals drifted golden spores, no larger than pepper grains yet bright enough to cast pinprick halos on the walls. They drifted in lazy spirals, innocent as dandelion fluff until you noticed they never touched the ground.
He lifted a gloved hand to halt Sylvanna without looking back.
