The air was thick with the stench of blood and burnt earth, so heavy that every breath scraped down Luca's throat like sand. The flicker of torchlight from the cultists' hands twisted their shadows into grotesque shapes on the cave walls, like demons ready to pounce. Somewhere, water dripped steadily—a hollow, mocking rhythm to count down their last moments.
Luca's back was pressed to the cold stone, his body screaming with wounds, yet the pain was drowned out by the sheer certainty pressing down on him. There was no escape. Not this time.
"So… are we really gonna die, huh?" His voice was low, almost casual, but the strain in it was undeniable.
Celestia's lips trembled. Her usually bright golden eyes were dulled by guilt. "I–I'm really sorry… I knew what could happen to me. Still… I took the risk."
From the shadows, the five cultists laughed in that sickening, chittering way that made the skin crawl.
"Jijijijieiejiejie… is this the famous lovers' talk?"
