The corridor beyond the entry hall was narrower than Rhys expected. The ceiling arched overhead at about twenty feet, and every surface was covered in a thin layer of frost that glittered like diamonds.
"Stop," Pho commanded suddenly. Rhys froze mid-step, his perception picking up what Pho had noticed. A faint magical signature was embedded in the floor ahead, barely visible even to his trained eyes.
"Pressure plates," Pho observed.
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