Remu hovered in the sky, her body suspended like a broken star against the bleeding sky. Her arms were outstretched, hair whipping wildly around her face as her chants poured into the rippling tear above. The clouds spiraled tighter, darker, hungrier. Magic surged in waves, thick and suffocating, drawn from the nexus and fed directly into the rift.
Every spell she cast made the tear stretch further, wider. And with it came whispers. Low. Ancient. The voices of the Fogwalkers, inching closer with every second.
Down below, Greta stood silently. Didn't call her daughter down. She just watched with a weight behind her eyes that only a mother could understand.
"How far have you fallen, child?" she asked softly, barely loud enough for the others to hear.
Remu heard it.
And laughed.
Not a pleasant sound.
It was cracked. Wild. A laugh soaked in too many nights alone and too many thoughts left to rot in silence.
