The descent from the Holy Mountain was no longer a journey, it was a three-day marathon through a slaughterhouse. Egon and Hilga found no rest, for the forest had become a labyrinth of shifting rifts and hungry shadows.
They walked on foot as their carriage had been reduced to splinters during the initial attack.
So they carved a path through the burgeoning demonic tide.
Hilga led the way like a unstoppable vanguard of gold. Her every step left a trail of crystallized grass, and her blade, Excalibur, never stopped cutting.
She was efficient, her movements dictated by the Holy Physique of Light, yet Egon could see the toll it took on her mind. Every life she snuffed out, even those of monsters, weighed on her lavender eyes.
Egon followed in her wake, though he was far from a mere spectator. He stayed in the shadows she cast, his presence a cold, devouring vacuum.
