The garden of Darkhelm was nothing like Michael had imagined.
His preconceptions painted it as a wasteland of brimstone and screaming souls, but here—hidden deep within the shadowed halls of Pandora's domain—was a place of startling beauty.
Black lilies bloomed in radiant arcs, their petals shimmering with an inner glow like moonlight filtered through onyx.
Vines of blue fire curled along obsidian trellises.
In the center stood a single tree—its bark silver, its leaves a deep, living crimson—bleeding light like veins of magic running through a dream.
Pandora sat beneath it, legs folded neatly, brushing a hand through the soft grass as she glanced up at him.
Her pitch-black eyes reflected stars that weren't there.
Michael approached cautiously, his wrists still sore from the shackles that had been removed only minutes earlier.
Though his Ki was still sealed, she had allowed him this freedom, if only for a time.
