Entombed in a Dying Past

The walls cracked. Dust rained down. Mikhailis stood at the threshold of the ancient chamber, clutching the runic key in one hand, eyes fixed on the fragment of the Mist Sovereign's essence that rested atop the altar. All around him, the catacombs groaned in protest, the echoes of centuries-old magic straining under the rising pressure. Bits of stone tumbled from the ceiling, scattering in ragged piles at his feet, while the hiss of escaping air suggested unseen tunnels collapsing somewhere deep in the labyrinth. It was like the entire place was alive and furious with them for daring to trespass.