Ahead, the light shifted. The air grew colder, sharp as iron. Shadows thickened, no longer the natural play of stone and flame but something deliberate, ancient.
The gates rose before Aurora—twin slabs of black stone carved with wounds that glowed faint red, like scars that never healed. They loomed higher than mountains, their edges rimmed with chains that rattled without wind.
The gates of a Demon King's realm. The realm of the greatest mage of demon kind, One of her teachers, during her time before. So she knew, what was ahead. The test of chains.
She stopped. Her forehead tightened. Her hand steadied on her staff. She felt the weight of the air pressing into her chest, like the gates themselves judged her resolve.
Do I turn back now? The thought came unbidden. But it was drowned by another, fiercer one:
Loki waits.
Loki suffers.
Loki needs.
