Death was breathing quietly in the dark.
The feeling hadn’t left Adwyn since that cursed iron gate came close behind him. From everywhere and in everything — sight, sound, smell — there was a certain malignity, and it settled into his scales. He would molt next cycle, he knew; and it wasn’t soon enough.
Adwyn drew a calming breath and spat out spicy venom. After an inhale the dew came back, and he let it; his soul needed it.
The gate had seen him into a wide entry chamber that turned to a ramp which slinked down to something that already felt somber even when half invisible.