Power Demands a Price

Mikhailis tightened his grip on the runic key, its cool metal pulsing faintly in his palm. The warden loomed before him, its mist-like body shifting between solidity and vapor, jagged spikes of arcane energy flickering across its form. Each time the spikes glowed, the air seemed to tighten, as though the catacomb itself was bracing for conflict. The robed illusions surrounding them moved in eerie unison, their silent chanting growing more intense, the mist thickening like a veil pressing against his lungs. Mikhailis could feel a subtle pressure on his temples, as if these ancient spirits were peering into his mind, testing his resolve. The air itself felt heavy, charged with something old and watchful, as though centuries of secrets hovered just out of reach, waiting for his decision.