Whispers of the Dead

The inside of the inn was hollow and lifeless, yet it carried an unsettling stillness that made the air feel heavier than it should be.

The walls, the floor, even the tables and chairs were made of stone, seamlessly carved into shape without the signs of tools or human hands.

Argolaith ran his fingers over the smooth surface of a table, noting how it lacked even the smallest imperfection. "It's like everything here was grown, not built."

Kaelred picked up a stone cup, turning it over in his hands. "I don't get it. Why would they make plates and dishes out of stone?"

Argolaith shrugged. "Maybe they don't need anything else. Maybe this is just… normal to them."

The air was warm, the heat pressing against their skin like a reminder of how deep underground they were.

But despite the strangeness of it all, nothing felt hostile.

Just forgotten.