The damp scent of old rot filled the still air. Overcast grey skies filtered through the damaged walls and roof of the atrium to blur the fine details from sight. A hand reached out, fingers tracing the intricate carvings of the doorway, the spirals and curves smooth to the touch, fine craftsmanship polished by wind and sand. The sound of boots grinding ancient dust into the stone worked crisply into their ears as each of them moved forward. Something was bothersome, an itch at the periphery of their senses, the vague unease that originated from the deepest recesses of their minds, the unevolved lizard senses of fight or flight confused by the dead.

Motionless, they hung, their facial features blurred like a drawing made by someone who had forgotten what they looked like. Translucent, the dust and light seemed to waft through them. The dais ahead of them seemed like a loose prison, columns from the ceiling to the raised platform spaced out to allow passage but not much else.

When the Savant stepped through, the chill burned through them all as the howl ripped through their ears. Pain, loss, fear, all was as acrid on the tongue as the bitter cold twitched through their senses. The dead moved through them now, tearing bits of their willpower with them on each journey, leaving hollows where it once stood. Their own screams joined in the symphony, all singing the same song without words.

This place was theirs.