The night bled into day as the party crossed the broken plains leading to Oralis—once a divine city, now reduced to rubble and cursed stone. Lightning constantly lit the horizon, though no clouds marked the sky. Time felt different here. Slower. Heavier. Each step forward seemed to stretch into eternity, as if the very air resisted their advance.
Valerian stood at the cliff's edge, his black cloak fluttering like raven wings against the crimson dawn. The wind carried whispers—fragments of prayers from the dead, echoes of divine wrath that had shattered this holy place centuries ago. His silver eyes traced the ruined spires below, calculating paths through the maze of collapsed temples and twisted metal. Behind him, Lira, Seraphine, and a recovering Selene followed cautiously, their footsteps muffled by the strange, almost living moss that carpeted the ground.
