The air was heavy with the smell of rain and smoke. Clouds rolled low and swollen, pressing against the fractured horizon as the remnants of a once-living city trembled beneath them. Buildings stood like bones, hollow and scorched, half-swallowed by creeping vegetation. From afar, it might have looked peaceful—a monument reclaimed by nature—but up close, the silence was broken by the dull rhythm of boots scraping against wet concrete.
Lucien moved slowly through the street, coat torn and hanging loosely from one shoulder. His breathing was shallow, each exhale forming a faint mist in the cold air. The weight in his hand was a broken blade, its edge chipped and faintly glowing with residual energy. It hummed like a dying engine.
