The ground split beneath them.
From the cracks spilled not fire or smoke but shadows, thick as tar, writhing like serpents across the courtyard. The carvings on the broken pillars lit up, one after another, glowing a sickly red. The ruins were no longer silent. They pulsed with a rhythm, as though the earth itself had begun to breathe.
The scarred man swung his axe at the first tendril of shadow that coiled toward him. The blade met no flesh, but the strike tore through the air with a hiss. The tendril recoiled—but only for a heartbeat before lashing again.
“They’re everywhere!” he shouted.
Seraphel’s hands blazed with sigils, his voice rising in an incantation so ancient the sound alone made the stones vibrate. The air shuddered, and for a moment the shadows recoiled from his light.
