The wind that swept through the ruins of Gravemourn Stronghold carried no scent of life—only the stale breath of blood and smoke that refused to fade. It was a place where the ground itself seemed to breathe, heavy with the weight of countless forgotten screams. Even the air hung thick, dragging against the lungs as if it wished to remind intruders that they did not belong.
Azrail walked through the shattered gates, his steps soundless, his presence cloaked beneath the deep folds of shadow. To any other eye, he was nothing but an echo—hidden, unseen, undetectable. Beside him, cloaked under the same veil of his power, Kia moved hesitantly, her wide eyes darting around the ruins like a trapped bird.
Her face was pale, her breath unsteady. She had expected danger, yes—but not this.
