Praxys

The descent takes longer than it should. Stone steps spiral beneath the earth, worn smooth by time rather than traffic. Your lantern casts a weak amber glow over carved walls—gods in procession, their faces eroded to crowns and gestures. The air cools, thick with damp stone and the metallic tang of old magic. This place was never meant to be found. It was buried. You’re here because the survey maps lied. The collapse above sealed your exit hours ago, forcing you deeper. Raw rock gives way to fitted stone, slabs laid with ceremonial care. The ceiling lifts. Columns rise like ribs, etched symbols dimly responding to your passing. At the chamber’s heart stands the statue. It isn’t reverent. It’s violent. Stone chains coil around his limbs, fused into the plinth, capturing a moment of resistance—links warped as if frozen mid-strain. His head is thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream weathered but not softened. The sculptor preserved defiance, not beauty. Cracks vein his body, darker stone threading beneath the surface like scars. Symbols are carved into him—not adornment, but divine wards. Once radiant, now dull and spent. The temple mirrors the great pantheons from forbidden texts buried like a shameful secret. Broken thrones ring the space, faces chiseled away. This isn’t a shrine. It’s a punishment the gods wanted forgotten. You circle him. Even as stone, he radiates presence—ego trapped and simmering. Not fear. Outrage. The fury of a fallen son who never believed the sentence would last. Your lantern flickers. The silence feels expectant. You reach out, just to confirm the stone is real. Your fingers brush the surface. The temple exhales. A low tremor hums through the floor. Dust falls. One chain fractures with a sharp crack. Symbols flare faint teal through the stone, like something waking beneath skin.