The ruins were still. Too still.
Leo staggered, pressing one hand to his side where the cultist's jagged blade had grazed him. Blood seeped slowly through the fabric of his tunic, warm and sticky against his fingers, a tangible reminder of how close he had come to the edge. His other hand clutched his sword, the steel oddly reassuring despite the weight that dragged his arm down as though the weapon itself were pulling him into the ruin's memory.
The cultists had vanished, or perhaps been swallowed by the chaos they had unleashed themselves. The ritual ground lay empty, silent save for the soft sigh of wind threading through the fractured walls. Dust motes drifted lazily, catching the pale moonlight that spilled through the gaps in the roof and flickered across jagged stones and shattered masks. Every echo, every shadow seemed charged with a latent awareness, as if the ruin itself had watched the clash and now waited in grim contemplation.
