Some resembled angels, their wings broken and petrified; others were monstrous, with fangs and claws frozen in mid-reach.
Azareel touched one gently, his fingers brushing cold stone that shifted under his hand—not rock, but flesh turned to marble, warm for a fleeting second before hardening again. He jerked his hand back, his silver eyes wide.
"I think these were real," he whispered, his voice trembling.
"No," Sylvara said, her voice tight, her vines curling protectively around her waist.
"They are. The city preserves everything that enters. It… mourns through mimicry."
The gates loomed ahead now—two towering slabs of black stone, sealed shut, veins of red sap glowing faintly like dying embers pulsing in rhythm with the city's distant heartbeat.
And far above—something watched, a shape that wasn't there, a silhouette formed only of absence, crouched where spires met fog, its limbs too long, its back humped, its jaw unhinged into a smile that stretched past comprehension.
