The path from the abandoned building led us deeper into the slums, where the shadows stretched longer, and the air grew colder. The faint trail of ash and scorch marks curved and wove between narrow alleys, like breadcrumbs scattered in haste. Lunara and I moved in silence, our footsteps muffled by the grime-slick cobblestones.
The festival's distant hum was barely audible now, replaced by an eerie stillness that pressed against my senses. Even the tamed rats scurrying in the shadows seemed quieter, their usual nervous chatter replaced by the occasional rustle or faint squeak. It was as though the area itself was holding its breath.
The trail ended at a decrepit warehouse, its wooden walls warped and splintered with age. The large double doors stood slightly ajar, a faint green glow spilling through the gap and pooling onto the ground like liquid light. My nose wrinkled at the acrid scent that wafted out—a mixture of burnt wood, old blood, and something metallic.
