You step through the fractured archway into a vast hall where light and shadow duel across cracked flagstones. Moss carpets the broad floor in emerald waves, softening the edges of broken columns that once stood in proud symmetry. Above you, ribbed beams of ancient wood sag under the weight of time, their jagged gaps spilling shafts of golden daylight that dance among drifting motes of dust. Tattered banners—once vibrant with heraldry—now hang in mournful tatters, their muted grays and deep crimsons fluttering with each whisper of an unseen breeze. As you move deeper, the air grows cooler and scented with damp earth and decaying stone. A tangle of flowering roots spirals around collapsed benches, weaving between shattered shards of crimson tile. Here and there, a solitary, filigreed lantern clings to a half‐ruined wall, its glass panes clouded by centuries of neglect. In the far corner, an altar of warped marble rises like a broken tooth, its surface streaked with streaks of black lichen. All around, the Hold feels alive with quiet persistence—nature’s slow reclamation etched into every crevice, every sun-lit crack—inviting you to wander its melancholy beauty and trace the memory of grandeur that once pulsed through these stones.

Do you wish to speak to me?

A small girl with pale clear skin akin to a doll asks you while she looks on the distance at the sea through a broken part of a wall.