Coming back to Sanctum didn't feel like a homecoming. It felt like walking into a stranger's dream—one that was beautiful, dark, and teetering on the edge of a nightmare.
Mirabelle rode through the main gates just as the sun began to bleed out against the western horizon. The journey from the North had been grueling, a blur of white snow and grey skies, but the sight of her capital should have brought relief. Instead, it brought a strange, cold shiver of recognition.
The city she had left weeks ago—a place of white stone, nervous prayers, and repressed fear—was gone. In its place stood a fortress of twilight.
Revas' influence hadn't just occupied the capital; it had infected it. The streetlamps no longer burned with the warm, flickering yellow oil of the past; they hummed with a soft, violet luminescence that stretched shadows until they looked like claws. The architecture seemed sharper, more gothic, as if the buildings themselves were growing teeth to ward off intruders.
