As they went deeper into the fog, it peeled back slowly, not all at once, revealing the silhouette of something grand and forgotten. A small castle—at least what remained of it—stood sunken into the earth, swallowed by centuries of vine and tree. Towers crumbled into leaning stone pillars. Walls bore deep cracks where roots had forced their way through like veins. Ivy and moss covered everything, turning age into a kind of beauty.
Yet what caught Lira's breath wasn't the structure—it was what shimmered just in front of it.
Ghostly figures. Dozens of them.
Translucent and glowing faintly silver, they moved like echoes suspended in air. Elves—tall, graceful, robed in flowing garments that seemed to drift like water. Children danced between ruined archways. Two figures stood atop a balcony, heads bowed together, speaking in silence. Musicians played instruments whose notes were swallowed by time.
Thalanir stopped cold.
