The fog had vanished completely, leaving only silence as Lucy and the Ogre descended the ancient stone road.
Llarm drifted behind Lucy, his limp body cradled by a gentle current of wind magic, arms swaying slightly with each step. The others hung from the Ogre's massiveness—Eri draped over her shoulder, Fenric nestled in the crook of her arm, Gindu was slung across her broad back like a worn satchel.
They moved without words, the hush broken only by the rhythm of their footsteps and the faint rustle of silver-white leaves overhead.
Every few hundred feet along the road's edge stood statues of Seraphine.
Each was carved from pale, veined stone, eroded with age but unmistakably divine. In every sculpture, Seraphine was posed differently—sometimes with arms outstretched in welcome, other times kneeling as if in sorrow. Her long hair was chiseled to flow like water, and her expression always carried the weight of someone who had seen and mourned the end.
