The cave offered no respite.
The sound of the river became a distant whisper as they delved deeper, replaced by a mineral silence, heavy, almost palpable. The damp walls reflected the dim light, as if covered in stone scales. The air smelled of moss, but there was something else—a sweet, strange aroma, like dead flowers mixed with burning incense.
Amélia walked with Sylphie leaning on her shoulders. The mage, even faint, murmured incoherent words, some recognizable only as fragments of ancient incantations. The gold in her eyes still flickered and faded at intervals, like a wavering flame.
Irelia, in front, held the bloodstained sword. Her steps were firm, but there was a slight tremor in her free hand—a result of exhaustion, of the previous fight, or of the pain she refused to show.
The princess walked in silence, as always. But within the darkness, her figure seemed even more distant, almost spectral. She gazed at the cave walls with an unnatural calm.
