Yara hit the ground hard, dust and debris choking the air. Her lungs burned as she coughed, rolling onto her side. A sharp ache spread through her ribs, but she forced herself up.
To her left, Rian groaned, spitting out dirt. "I hate magic temples," he muttered, dragging himself onto his elbows. His cloak was dust-coated, and his hair was a mess, but he was alive.
Val landed more gracefully, though he was still rattled. He exhaled sharply, pushing himself upright, his hand already reaching for Yara.
His golden eyes burned like embers in the dim chamber.
Yara barely had time to take in their surroundings before a voice came.
"Welcome, little one."
She turned, and there—atop a crumbling stone throne, half-consumed by roots and time—sat a man draped in dark robes. His hair was silver, not with age but with something unnatural.
