Yuuta was falling.
The darkness swallowed him whole, thick and absolute, pressing against him from all sides like the weight of a thousand graves.
The air rushed past his ears, cold and damp, carrying the smell of decay and old blood and something else, something that had been rotting for a very long time, something that had been forgotten by the world above.
He did not scream.
He did not have the strength.
His body was broken, his mind was shattered, and all he could do was fall.
The memory shifted with him.
Erza and Isvarn were pulled downward, dragged through the darkness by the force of Yuuta's descent. The walls of the well rushed past them, jagged and uneven, stained with centuries of suffering.
Finger marks clawed into the stone, desperate, futile, the last attempts of victims who had tried to climb to freedom and failed. Nails had broken off in the crevices, leaving behind tiny fragments of bone and dried blood.
