The heavy obsidian doors groaned as they settled into their ancient stone housings, bathing the cavernous entrance in a cold, ethereal light. I stood frozen on the frost-slicked flags, my hands trembling violently against the hilt of my sword. The air felt suffocatingly thick, heavy with the suffocating scent of ozone, old blood, and a terrifyingly familiar presence.
The entity wearing Draven's skin slowly turned to face me. The glowing golden aura that had flooded the vault's threshold lingered around his broad shoulders like a mantle. He didn't look like a caught monster; he looked like a weary sovereign, his posture rigid, his hazel-gold eyes filled with an intense, haunting desperation.
"Hm? What's wrong, Seraphina?" he repeated softly, taking a single, measured step toward me.
