Azrael slowly stepped past the threshold of tangled roots and broken timber, the sound of his boots muffled by the thick layer of moss beneath him.
The air was heavy, almost suffocating, a blend of damp soil, decaying wood, and sothing faintly tallic that reminded him of blood.
Every breath felt like inhaling the weight of centuries.
He moved forward, brushing aside a hanging vine as his gaze swept over the remnants of what must've once been hos.
Wooden fras stood crooked, eaten away by ti and rot, their edges soft and frayed.
In one corner, half-buried under a mound of roots, he spotted the shattered remains of what looked like a carved wooden sign, the letters too worn to read.
The wind whispered through the broken structures, creating an eerie harmony, as if the forest itself was speaking in a forgotten tongue.
Sowhere in the distance, sothing creaked, the sound of an old door, moving slightly under the pressure of the wind, groaning like a ghost disturbed from slumber.
Azrael squatted, brushing his gloved fingers across the mossy ground.
There were marks here, faint, circular grooves carved into the stone beneath the moss.
Ritual markings, maybe.
The kind used in mana formations.
But they were old… older than anything he had seen since the Catastrophe.
"Huh,"
He muttered, tracing one with his finger.
"So this place wasn't just a village… it was enchanted."
He rose again, dusting his coat, and continued deeper into the ruins.
Each step echoed faintly, swallowed quickly by the thick forest silence.
He passed what must've once been a central square, a wide, open clearing surrounded by collapsed structures.
In the middle stood a broken statue, half-covered by ivy and dirt.
He approached it carefully, brushing away the thick vines that concealed its form.
Underneath was a humanoid figure with elongated ears and delicate, noble features, unmistakably Elven.
But what struck him wasn't the face; it was the expression.
The statue wasn't serene or proud like most Elven carvings, it was terrified.
The mouth open in a silent scream, hands reaching upward as though grasping for sothing that had never co.
Azrael's brows furrowed.
"What the hell happened here…"
He whispered, his voice almost drowned out by the faint whistle of the wind.
He turned his head as a low, resonant hum filled the air, subtle, like a vibration at the edge of hearing.
He stood still, scanning his surroundings.
The hum wasn't from any creature.
It ca from the ground.
Slowly, cautiously, he knelt again, placing his hand flat against the mossy earth.
The mont his palm touched it, he felt it, a faint pulse, rhythmic and alive, like the heartbeat of sothing enormous slumbering beneath the soil.
Mana.
Ancient mana.
Except… this one didn't flow like the mana he knew. It was cold, dense, and inverted, like it was pulling reality inward instead of expanding it.
It was the sa kind of energy he'd felt only once before, during the Catastrophe Remnants experints.
His eyes darkened.
"…Black hole mana."
He stood, his mind racing.
Everything about this place scread of sothing that shouldn't exist, an old village sealed away from the rest of the world, powered by inverted mana, haunted by statues of Elves frozen in terror.
And yet, he couldn't stop walking.
Sothing deeper inside him, curiosity, hunger, or maybe just that instinct that had kept him alive all these years, pushed him onward.
He followed a faint trail of old, broken stone steps leading downhill, deeper into the forest's shadow.
The further he went, the colder the air beca.
The sound of dripping water echoed sowhere in the distance.
Finally, he reached what looked like the entrance to a massive underground chamber, the ruins of a temple, half-swallowed by the earth itself.
Massive stone pillars jutted out from the ground, carved with Elven runes so ancient that even Azrael, who prided himself on knowing almost every language that survived the Catastrophe, couldn't decipher them.
He stepped closer, brushing his hand against one of the carvings.
The runes faintly glowed in response, a dim, bluish-white light that rippled outward like water.
Azrael froze.
"...."
He could feel it again.
That pulse.
That faint, reversed flow of mana.
Except this ti… it was awake.
"…Sleipnir,"
He murmured, eyes narrowing as the wind howled through the ruins, carrying with it the low, ancient sound of hooves echoing sowhere deep beneath the ground.
The entire forest seed to shudder in response, leaves trembling, the air rippling faintly as if reality itself had exhaled.
Azrael straightened his coat, his lips curling into a faint, dangerous smirk.
"Well,"
He said quietly, voice almost swallowed by the wind,
"Guess I found you after all."
Azrael's boots pressed softly against the mossy ground as he ventured deeper into the ruins chamber.
The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp soil and sothing older… sothing ancient.
Every breath he took seed to echo faintly, as though the very forest whispered back to him.
Crumbled stone walls lined his path, half-consud by creeping vines and roots that had long claid this place as their own.
He brushed a hand across one of the walls, it felt cold, yet faintly thrumming with so lingering energy.
"The hell's with this ruins…"
He muttered, glancing around.
"It's… alive?"
Leaves rustled sowhere above, yet there was no wind.
His instincts prickled, that deep, primal alertness honed from years of surviving things that shouldn't exist.
Sothing was wrong with the air here.
Too still…
Too charged…
He moved carefully, his eyes tracing faint symbols carved into broken pillars.
They shimred faintly under the dim forest light, reacting subtly to his presence.
"Old runes… Nordic, maybe?"
He murmured, crouching to inspect them.
"No… older than that."
Suddenly, the ground beneath him trembled, a faint, rhythmic pulse that wasn't quite an earthquake, but more like the heartbeat of the world itself.
He looked up.
The deeper he went, the more the world seed to distort around him.
Trees stood unnaturally tall, their branches forming twisting patterns in the air like veins of an otherworldly being.
Ti itself seed uncertain, the shadows around him shifted in strange ways, so stretching longer than they should, so refusing to move at all.
Azrael frowned.
"This place… it's rejecting ?"
He reached out again, touching the air ahead, and felt resistance.
It wasn't solid, yet it pushed back against him like invisible pressure.
A faint, bluish shimr flickered before his eyes, a translucent field covering the heart of the ruin.
"What the hell…"
He pressed harder, but the air rippled violently.
The force repelled him, sending him stumbling backward.
He steadied himself, eyes narrowing as realization crept in.
"…A mana barrier?"
He couldn't see through it, but he could feel sothing, a powerful, dormant presence sealed beyond that invisible wall.
It was faint but ancient, resonating with power that made his blood stir.
Azrael smirked faintly, rubbing his neck.
"So you are here… Sleipnir."
He paced around the periter, watching the barrier shimr faintly with each step.
Whatever magic it was, it wasn't of human origin.
It pulsed like a living thing, humming with the energy of countless souls or maybe… ti itself.
And sowhere within that sealed dinsion, sothing, or soone, stirred ever so slightly, as though sensing him.
But the barrier remained.
Unbroken…
Unyielding…
And Azrael Darkbrone was not the kind of man who took rejection lightly.
***
"Haa… I have to do this…"
Margaret murmured under her breath as her footsteps echoed softly through the grand marble hall. The chandeliers above shimred with golden light, reflecting against the polished floors like tiny stars under her boots.
Her hands were clasped tightly before her, betraying the nervous energy beneath her calm exterior.
"I need to ask Mother Jessica's permission… she'll accept, right?"
She whispered to herself, as though saying it out loud would make it true.
A faint sigh escaped her lips.
"It's a world-threatening crisis after all. She has to understand. She'll let go to the Backthorn… yes, she must."
Her pace quickened slightly, determination flickering in her eyes even as uncertainty lingered in her tone.
As Margaret finally reached the end of the long, echoing corridor, she stopped before an enormous door, carved with golden patterns that shimred faintly under the warm light of the chandeliers.
The air around it felt heavier, quieter, as if even the sound of her heartbeat was being swallowed by the room beyond.
"Huu…"
Taking a small breath, she slowly pushed the door open.
The hinges creaked softly, revealing a spacious chamber bathed in a gentle golden glow. It was a single person's room, yet it looked grand enough to belong to a queen.
A large, king-sized bed draped in velvet sheets stood at the center, its canopy glimring with silver threads.
Dozens of soft pillows were neatly arranged, and beside the bed was a crystal table holding a vase of fresh lilies that filled the air with a light, soothing fragrance.
Near the window stood an ornate wardrobe, its doors slightly ajar to reveal rows of elegant dresses, each one crafted with intricate embroidery, like pieces of art waiting to be worn.
Silken curtains danced lightly with the passing breeze, carrying in a faint chill from the garden outside.
Margaret's eyes wandered for a mont, before landing on the figure seated near the window, her back turned, her presence radiating quiet authority.
Jessica Windsor.
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