Vergil's footsteps echoed with a heavy thud as he strode towards Elvira's cottage — his feet pressing into the ground as if a dozen boulders rested on his back.
Eleanor followed close behind him, a tense silence hung between them.
The prosperous village that was once filled with the shouts of merchants had been reduced to nothing but scorched wood and ashes — the smell of blood taking over the air like a cursed fog.
Turning the final corner.
The old house was there — barely.
Roof collapsed inwards, blackened beams caved in like the ribs of a dying beast. The door hung on one hinge, swaying with the wind. The garden that Elvira tended to was nothing but a pile of ash.
"…Elvira?" Vergil shouted.
No answer.
Stepping inside, the floor creaked under their weight — Eleanor remained at the threshold — watching.
Memories flashed in quick bursts. Her herbal tea, her chair by the window. Her soft scolding echoing from a time that felt as if he wouldn't experience it again.
