Before Anneliese could ask another question, a hand wrapped around her wrist—firm, yet gentle.
His eyes met hers. "Hold on," he whispered.
Then the world blinked.
It was not wind, or light, or even movement. The moment blurred. It was as though the entire castle, the corridor, the sky itself—had folded inward and vanished.
She felt a lurch in her chest—teleportation was disorienting.
The ground reformed beneath her, but her mind lagged a heartbeat behind.
Ash.
Not just dust—ash.
Bridgehallow—what little remained of it—stood beneath a grey, haunted sky. The wind carried the dry scent of burnt wood and something older—something that had no scent but still stung the back of her throat. Bridgehallow was not just ruined—it was dead.
