We had walked for a long time before daring to breathe again.
The trees slowly swallowed us, closing behind us the light and the ruins. The air grew heavier, thicker. Every breath burned my throat, saturated with mana and moisture. The Garden felt like it wanted to devour us whole.
When we were finally far enough, I let myself fall against a trunk, out of breath. The moss there was cold, soaked with water. Sylvara sat down right beside me, knees pulled up, head low. Her wings still trembled—not from fear, but from a nervous exhaustion I shared all too well.
We stayed there for a while, listening to the sound of our breaths clashing in the silence.
The wind stirred the leaves above us. There was something unsettling in that rustle—almost too alive. It felt like the forest was holding back a laugh.
Sylvara spoke first, her voice hoarse but steady.
— It's probably the heart of the dungeon… or its guardian.
I turned my head toward her.
— I thought the same.
