Tap tap...
Creak——
Boom...
The unguarded door swung open, then closed behind her.
In the empty corridor, the clear sound of footsteps echoed through the hall, like the beat of a drum.
The robe trailed on the ground, her hand holding a scepter that was more symbolic than practical, the witch's demeanor casual and natural.
Although the meeting was about to begin, she still had the leisure to admire the murals and reliefs on the walls on either side of the corridor.
A hundred years, a thousand years, history condensed upon them, a unique hobby of the people of this era.
They seemed to have inherited the habit of the Golden Age and the inscriptions on the stele, enjoying the engraving of myths and facts on solid stone.
'But this has no real meaning... just a useless sense of ritual.'
Losing herself in thought, Medea, as usual, criticized the so-called traditions.
