The River of Lost Souls

The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something indefinably mournful. Luna’s boots squelched in the mud, each step a small, disheartening sound in the oppressive silence. Beside her, Xylo moved with an unnerving grace, his cloaked form a shadow against the perpetual twilight. He’d been quieter than usual since they’d navigated the bewildering twists and turns of the labyrinth, his cryptic pronouncements replaced by a grim, focused silence.

“Where are we going now?” Luna finally dared to ask, her voice a small tremor in the vast emptiness. She hugged herself, a shiver tracing its way down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill. The ground beneath her feet had become softer, more yielding, and a low, persistent murmur seemed to rise from it, like a thousand hushed voices.

Xylo stopped, his head tilting as if listening to something only he could hear. “The river,” he stated, his voice a low rasp. “The last obstacle before the true depths.”