That night, the fog of Nocture grew even thicker, as if the dead land itself was breathing, exhaling a cold breath that wrapped the black walls of the city like a deadly embrace. The refugee campfires outside the gates flickered like the hungry eyes of wolves, and their shouts, murmurs, and cries echoed faintly through the cracks in the crystal stone.
Sylvia stood on the castle balcony, her hand touching the cold obsidian railing, her pitch-black eyes gazing downward. Sofia stood beside her, her golden hair gently fluttering in the night wind that carried the scent of blood and smoke from the refugee camp.
