In the castle garden, time seemed to stand still.
Thin black mist drifted lazily among the dark-blooming black roses, their leaves glistening like wet obsidian. The dead pond reflected a faint purple crystal light, small ripples appearing now and then without wind, as if the water itself were breathing slowly. The scent of fresh black mushrooms mingled with cold gusts that carried distant battlefield smells: scorched metal, dried blood, and faintly echoing thunder.
Sylvia remained seated on the black stone bench, legs crossed elegantly, her black dress unmoving even when the occasional breeze brushed the hem. The Chain of Abyss coiled loosely around her wrist like a sleeping living bracelet. The teacup in front of her was already empty, yet she made no call for anyone to refill it. Her bright red eyes gazed northward where Aurellia's red flames still burned faintly in the distance, but her expression stayed flat and calm like the surface of the dead pond.
