Darkness.
That was the first impression that assaulted Dayat's senses the moment the iron gates of The Deep Root Cellar slammed shut behind him. The sound wasn't just a clash of metal on metal; it was a death sentence for every shred of hope he had meticulously built under the bright Vaelith sun. The golden light that usually bathed the capital of Verdia was now replaced by a thick, suffocating darkness that seemed to possess mass—pressing against his chest and clogging his lungs like heavy, damp wool.
