The lake has risen over centuries, swallowing structures that once stood on dry ground. Stone walls break the surface near the shore, their tops worn smooth by time and water. Further out, shapes are visible beneath the surface on clear days—larger structures, partially collapsed, built from stone blocks too massive for human construction.
The architecture doesn't match the other ruins scattered through Luendrokrül. Those are human-scale, built with human techniques. The drowned ruins at Byvarnül are something else: doorways twice normal height, corridors wide enough for processions, and a central structure—visible only as a dark mass in the lake's deepest point—that defies easy categorization.
Divers have explored the shallower ruins. They report halls filled with preserved objects: furniture, tools, containers that might have held food or offerings. No bodies. No bones. Whatever lived here left, and they took their dead with them.
No one has reached the central structure. Divers who've tried report difficulty—the water grows colder as they descend, currents appear where none should exist, and something about the depths discourages progress. Not danger exactly. Just a growing certainty that they should turn back.