The hurricane was a world of screaming winds and fractured light, its walls a spiraling prison of shadow and lightning. Every gust seemed to carry whispers—echoes of the dying, twisted into a chorus that gnawed at the mind. The air was heavy with metallic tang, as though the storm itself had been born from blood.
In the middle of that chaos, Luca found himself still clinging to Celestia, his body pressed against hers, their forms flickering faintly in and out of substance. Her arms were steady despite the tempest, her gaze almost unnervingly calm.
"Don't worry," she said, voice cutting through the storm like a clear bell. "I have the artifact ready to get us out of here. How do you think we traveled back with our bodies unharmed?"
Luca forced his eyes open against the sting of the wind, studying her with suspicion. "Okay? But then… why didn't you use it the first time?"
