Lysithara was bleak and beautiful, its dying sun casting a solemn light over the ruined city. Even in its crumbling state, there was a certain grace to it—like a mausoleum where the dead refused to stay dead, and the living were slowly consumed by rot.
With the sun beginning to set, Damon blinked at the horizon, realizing he had no idea how time had slipped by so quickly.
It felt as if they'd only just left the ruined cathedral a few hours ago… yet a whole day had passed. Once again, he questioned whether it was just him, but his perception of time felt severely skewed.
Had they really spent an entire day dealing with Mist Knight Thren? He might've argued the point—if his current condition wasn't so dire.
They had returned to find Xander, Matia, and Leona surrounded by a horde of undead.
Without Thren's control, the creatures had lost all coordination and were swiftly wiped out. Afterward, Damon had insisted the party move—somewhere, anywhere to rest.
