The room had no business being warm. Stone should have held the night's chill, should have exhaled dampness and old air, but instead it breathed. Slow. Rhythmic. Alive.

The first thing anyone would notice was the silence.

Not the absence of sound—there were sounds everywhere. The slow trickle of crimson liquid down twisted roots. The soft creaking of vines that had no wind to move them. A heartbeat that wasn't quite loud enough to be heard, yet impossible not to feel. It settled somewhere behind the ribs, convincing the body that it had always been there.

Something sweet beneath it all, almost floral, as though a garden had bloomed somewhere no sunlight had ever reached.

The Egg rested at the center of the chamber, larger than any memory could ever describe. Its shell glistened with wet reds and blacks, pulsing lazily beneath a lattice of veins that disappeared into the walls themselves. Crimson vines had consumed nearly every inch of stone, crawling over pillars, disappearing into cracks, hanging from the ceiling like arteries..

His back remained turned, black cloak hanging motionless against his shoulders. There was no sword in his hand, no armor prepared for battle.

Only quiet reverence.

"...No," BadBoyHalo murmured softly. His voice barely disturbed the air. "I told them they're not ready."