The night hung thick and heavy with the promise of change, the air unusually still. The streets were quiet, almost dead silent. The full moon rose, casting a cold, silvery glow across the land.
Lara's boots crunched softly over the frozen earth as she approached the Veil. The entrance—an ancient stone arch, covered in creeping vines—loomed before her like a silent sentinel, watching the world through eyes that had long since seen everything.
Behind her, Esme trudged slowly, each step heavier than the last. She looked fragile, almost like a runt, with her once-strong form now slumped. There was no power in her movements, no grace to her steps. The bloodied gash at her side seemed to mock her, the wound refusing to heal as it should. Her skin felt stretched too thin, like she might shatter at any moment.
