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The obsidian gate shut behind them with a grinding finality, sealing the four in a silence so dense it pressed against the skin like a weight. The air was different here—colder, sharper, carrying with it the faint scent of parchment and dust, as if they had stepped not into a labyrinth, but into a tomb of memory.
The corridors twisted unnaturally, each wall engraved with countless names, some etched deep, others barely visible, already fading. Their whispers bled into the stone itse ...
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