The revelation hung heavy in the air. The purpose of the fight seemed to evaporate, replaced by a shared, albeit vastly different, position under the oppressive thumb of unseen forces.
Fin felt the Queen's gaze on him, sharp and assessing. She had revealed truths that shattered his worldview, yet her own situation seemed just as constrained, albeit on a grander scale.
"So," he said, breaking the silence, his voice still flat, "this whole dungeon, the spiders, you... it's all just a prison cell?"
"An oversimplification," she replied, tracing a pattern on the floor with the butt of Requiem's shaft. "But essentially correct. A gilded cage, perhaps. Maintained by forces that find my existence inconvenient."
It made a sickening kind of sense.
Dungeons weren't random anomalies. They were curated pockets of broken worlds, isolated dimensions stitched together. Farms. Prisons. Playgrounds for beings he couldn't comprehend.
