Adam stormed his way down the stairwell. Each step bore the weight of his fury and worry in footprints from which mist of sky-blue mana illuminated the dust-laden basement.
The light pierced through the recesses in the walls, revealing the shapes hidden in the dust.
Skeletons. Everywhere.
Some dressed in half-decomposed fabric, fretted with withered chunks of ancient banners, time-worn holes exposing glimpses of rotten flesh still clinging to yellowed bone. Most were black-boned, stained dirty from ages of silent waiting.
Adam barely looked around as he charged through the only corridor. Their state, their origin—they didn't matter. Only Quintella did.
