Floor Five wasn't supposed to exist.
The platform's glow died the moment I stepped off. No way up. No ladder. No exit. Just me, stale air, and the oppressive weight of things not meant to be remembered.
The sigil on the mural pulsed faintly. It wasn't magic, not in the traditional sense. No wards. No enchantment. Just something older. Hungrier.
The Pattern Remembers.
The phrase echoed in my head like a chant I hadn't meant to learn. My hand twitched involuntarily, the skin along my fingers itching like something beneath the surface was trying to draw itself out.
I approached the mural. It was carved into the wall, but the lines shimmered ever so slightly, like they refused to be defined by stone alone. And then I noticed it: tiny etchings spiraling out from the central sigil.
Names.
Dates.
Coordinates.
Some were in languages I didn't recognize. Others were in dead dialects only seen in fragments from field reports and forgotten ruins.
But a few were in common tongue.
