The coppery tang of blood coated Gloria's tongue, it was thick and tasted metallic. Her vision faltered, the pillars warped, the throne rippled like a mirage, the entire perimeter bending in and out of focus as if the castle itself were breathing.
She didn't answer Azrael. There was no strength left for words.
Instead, she crawled, knees scraping, palms slipping in her own blood, until her body crossed the threshold of the circle. Her footing failed more than once, legs buckling like broken branches, but she pressed forward with blind determination, just following the light. She had to reach the Spike. Had to…before her body gave out or her mind dissolved into the pain.
The warmth inside the circle wrapped around her like a sacred breath, a jarring contrast to the frozen nightmare outside. It didn't feel real. In this cruel, blood-soaked hell, how could something so divine still exist?
