He felt a familiar presence behind him. Walpurga advanced silently, her black silk dress brushing against the tall, dry grasses. She no longer had her parasol. Her excessively long white hair trailed on the ground like a royal train, catching the last golden reflections of the day. In her true form, her beauty was so terrifying that it became almost unbearable for an ordinary mortal, but Klein no longer looked away.
"You are still lost in your thoughts, Klein Konstantine," she observed. Her voice no longer held that aristocratic coldness from the beginning; it was imbued with a melancholic softness, a vulnerability she only allowed in his presence.
"It's the habit of the tower," he replied without turning around. "The silence there was always the prelude to a new horror. Here, it is just... empty."
Walpurga stopped at his side. Her ebony skin glowed softly under the dying light. She turned her amethyst eyes toward him, scrutinizing his profile hardened by ordeals.
