Yet even as they ran toward the abyss, the world itself seemed to respond.
The sky cracked—not with thunder, but with a sound older than the storm. It was a moan, long and low, the weeping of something ancient waking from slumber. The clouds above twisted in unnatural spirals, and light fractured into hues not seen by mortal eyes. The trees that remained bent toward the epicenter, their leaves rustling secrets long buried. Beneath their feet, the ground pulsed—steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat not their own.
Then came the scent.
It drifted through the shattered valley: the copper tang of blood, yes—but layered beneath that was something else. Sweet, almost floral, but decaying, like wilted lilies left too long in the sun. It was the scent of Daniela, or whatever she had become. A cruel mimicry of life. And when she emerged fully from the veil of mist and ash, they understood why.
She was beautiful.
But not in the way they remembered.
