The air carried the faint stench of rot mixed with lingering ash. The ruins of Vakrops stretched before Aria, not lifeless, but bound in a state between.
Shattered spires rose like broken pillars through streets of stone. Collapsed halls murmured faint echoes as figures drifted and staggered through the wreckage—skeletal soldiers, gaunt hounds, formless shades gliding through archways. The city lay unsettled, refusing silence.
Aria stepped onto the cracked stones without hesitation. This was no ruin abandoned—it was a dungeon unending, the city itself still breathing with its old curse.
Fenric's words came to her: "The Grimoire lies in the chamber beneath the throne."
She considered them without outward reaction. How would he know? The thought passed quietly, unanswered.
The broken palace loomed ahead, its gates bowed beneath rubble. Dozens of the dead gathered there, faint light stirring in their hollow sockets.
