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A wall of vines hides a door no expedition has opened in a century. Clear the way in.

The bridge rotted out long ago. The current didn't, and neither did what swims in it.

Every tile is a question and a wrong answer. The builders were not subtle people.

The golden eye watches from its pedestal. Lift it right, or the whole chamber answers.

Take the idol and the temple wakes up. No expedition has ever outrun the way it closes.