Mikhailis groaned, spitting out a mouthful of dust as he pushed himself up from the rubble. The impact of the fall had knocked the wind out of him, and every muscle seemed to ache in protest. He felt the gritty texture of debris beneath his palms, bits of rock pressing into his skin. For a moment, the world was just a swirl of haze and swirling dirt, stinging his eyes and clinging to his lashes. He coughed several times, trying to clear his throat of the thick, earthy taste.
He blinked, vision gradually sharpening. The chamber around him was dimly lit by the faint glow of runes etched into the walls, which flickered weakly, like an ancient lantern about to go out. The air smelled of damp stone and something sharp, almost like old metal—maybe the remains of rusted tools or battered weapons long forgotten beneath the ground. He grimaced at the scent, realizing it was a lot less pleasant than the crisp air he was used to aboveground.
