Strangely, the large, gold filigree doors aged by time are not difficult to open. They are unlocked as if offering you welcome; the room is dark, illuminated only by the light of the dying sun cast from the windows in the corridor beyond. You realize Yima's chambers have no natural light; they are windowless.

As you cautiously step in, a stillness hangs in the air. The room - long abandoned and forgotten by centuries - reveals a scene of eerie hollowness. The walls once adorned with elegance are now engulfed by the gnarled and twisted roots of the Tree. They snake their way across the surfaces like bony fingers, their grip unyielding, as if compelled to stretch before the life had been drained from them and left them to decay. The lack of furniture or personal belongings intensifies your sense of growing unease.

As your gaze drifts upward, the narrow, domed ceiling commands your attention. It arches longways, stretching like a vast, darkened corridor. Its deceptive design plays tricks on the eyes, creating an illusion of an endless expanse of night sky above you. The stars twinkle and shift, moving in tandem with your every step as though you are journeying through a cosmic plane. It is surreal and beautiful. It's almost hypnotic for its realism.

It makes the hair at the nape of your neck stand on end.

If the group deigns to step inside without a vigilant companion keeping the door ajar, it will shut with strength, casting you within perfect darkness. The twinkle of the stars in the ceiling above - and any other sources of light you may have conjured - die inside it. In the silence, you hear something moving, the swish of silken fabrics, the soft clink of jewelry; a particularly astute observer will hear the addition of another breathing in the blackness.

Your nerves tingle. You are frozen. Everything is very, very still.

John and Childe will feel a gentle hand rest on their chests, pressing above their hearts in a gesture that is almost affectionate before it withdraws.

Claude and Dimitri will feel a sensation that defies description: it is the act of being Known, of having someone look at the direct contents of your soul as if being measured. The scrutiny is intense, probing, and methodical. It lasts but a moment.

The door re-opens, casting the light of a dying sun in from the corridor. The room is empty. The night sky is gone from above, leaving only the chipped, fading black paint behind.