The air in the Imperial vaults didn't just hang; it rotted. It tasted of copper and stagnant damp, a suffocating weight that pressed against the lungs.
The only thing cutting through the oppressive stillness was the rhythmic, surgical strike of Evangeline's heels against the wet stone. ' Crack. Crack. Crack.' Each step echoed like a gavel bringing down a death sentence.
Trailing in her wake, Silver moved with the fluid, unnatural grace of a predator. He didn't walk so much as bleed into the shadows she cast. The faint, chime of his bells wasn't musical; it was noise, a series of muffled, metallic snickers that mocked the surrounding tomb-quiet.
Evangeline halted. She didn't turn. The cold radiating from her was sharper than the subterranean draft.
"Why are you haunting my steps, Silver?" her voice clipped the air, dry and devoid of warmth.
