Aylen stood at the edge of a collapsed bridge, the wind howling through the skeletal remains of the ruins around her. Her scythe, dark and menacing, dripped with the fading remnants of her enemies—the spectral wraiths whose twisted forms had only moments ago shrieked and clawed at her from the shadows. Now, they were nothing but wisps of dissipating energy, their eerie howls fading into the thick, suffocating silence.
She exhaled slowly, the cold air sharp against her lips. The ruins were always cold, but here, in this cursed stretch of broken stone and forgotten history, the chill was something else entirely. It wasn't the bite of winter air or the dampness of mist—it was unnatural, seeping into the bones, sinking into the soul. It felt like the very essence of decay.
