One second you're walking down a busy street, sunlight warm on your shoulders. The next—

Cold.

Stone beneath your palms. Air that smells of iron and old dust. Torchlight flickering against walls so dark they seem to drink the flame.

You're on your knees in a corridor that stretches endlessly in both directions, lined with arched windows that show nothing but swirling fog. The floor is laid with flagstones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.

Somewhere nearby, a door creaks open. Footsteps. Deliberate. Measured.