Every stone placed is an offering. Aligned runes are burned away to feed the unseen. Each line you cleave is a tribute, each cluster a sacrament.

Your progress is not a score, but the strength of your will — the seal you shatter to descend further. The altar measures Resolve; it ebbs with each ritual and can be drained by your own haste.

In the dark niches around the flame lurk pacts. They grant power, but their names are not spoken aloud. The more you bind yourself, the more the altar demands from you.

When the stones stack too high, when the air thickens, something presses back from below. There is no mercy here; only momentum and the illusion of control.