,
That night, the Forest of Lamentation held its breath.
A pitch-black fog descended from the sky, hanging heavy like a shroud of death sweeping across the horizon. The blackened trees surrounding the castle swayed stiffly without wind—not from a breeze, but from the massive pressure weighing down the atmosphere. The air suddenly felt thick, clogging lungs with the sharp scent of sulfur and iron. Thump, thump, thump. The hearts of those still living beat erratically, triggered by a primal instinct warning that an apex predator had arrived.
Dayat stood firm before the gates. His silver-blue armor blazed bright, cutting through the nocturnal gloom. The purple-green sword in his right hand hummed shrilly, its vibration rattling his arm bones, as if the weapon itself were shivering with excitement—or perhaps terror.
