In the depths of an ancient, forgotten dungeon, a figure stirred from the murky depths of unconsciousness. The first sensation to greet him was pain—a searing, all-consuming agony that seemed to radiate from every fiber of his being. His head throbbed with a relentless, pounding ache as if it had been cleaved in two by some merciless blade. Each breath he drew was a labored, shuddering gasp, the air itself seeming to scorch his lungs.

As awareness slowly crept back into his battered body, the man became gradually cognizant of his surroundings. He was kneeling, his legs folded beneath him on a surface that felt rough and cold, like stone worn smooth by centuries of use. His arms were stretched above him, his wrists encircled by something hard and unyielding. The clink of metal and the bite of iron against his skin told him that he was chained, his limbs bound in an agonizing parody of supplication.

The man tried to move, to alleviate the excruciating pressure on his knees and shoulders, but his body refused to obey. Every attempt sent fresh shockwaves of pain lancing through him as if his very bones were splintering under the strain. He could feel the grating of fractured joints, the tearing of muscles pushed beyond their limits. It was as if he had been broken upon the rack, his body shattered and reassembled in some grotesque mockery of human form.

Through the haze of suffering, the man became aware of other sensations filtering in from the darkness around him. The air was thick with the stench of human misery—the reek of sweat, blood, and waste. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the echoes of agonized screams, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and assaulting his ears with a cacophony of torment. Closer by, the rattling of chains and the labored, wheezing gasps of other unfortunate souls filled the fetid space.

The man tried to open his eyes, to gain some sense of his surroundings, but even that small movement sent fresh daggers of agony lancing through his skull. He could feel the sticky, half-congealed blood that caked his face, the swelling that nearly sealed his eyes shut. Through the narrow slits of his vision, he could make out only vague shapes in the dimness—the looming outlines of stone walls, the shadowy forms of other figures chained as he was.

Time lost all meaning in that place of darkness and despair. The man drifted in and out of consciousness, each waking moment a fresh hell of pain and confusion. He had no memory of how he had come to be in this nightmare, no understanding of the events that had led him to this fate. His mind, when it could form coherent thoughts at all, was a maelstrom of terror and bewilderment.

Through the endless cycles of agony and oblivion, a single thought began to coalesce in the man's fractured mind—a name, a memory of a life beyond the hellish confines of his prison. Liam. Yes, that was his name. And with that realization came a flood of other memories—a face, a friendship, a bond forged in the crucible of shared experience.

Ethan. His best friend, his brother in all but blood. Where was he now? Was he, too, trapped in this labyrinth of suffering, his body broken and his spirit shattered? The thought sent a fresh surge of anguish through Liam, a pain that had nothing to do with his physical torment.

As Liam's senses slowly returned, he became increasingly aware of his own physical state. To his horror and confusion, he realized that he was completely naked, his clothes nowhere to be seen. His bare skin was covered in grime and bruises, the cold stone beneath him biting into his exposed flesh. Why had he been stripped? What possible reason could there be for this humiliation?

Fragmented images began to flicker through his mind, like shards of a shattered mirror. He remembered being in the Patagonian Andes with Ethan, his closest friend and companion. They had been filming a new video, a thrilling adventure in one of the most remote and breathtaking places on Earth. The memory of the rugged landscape, the pristine glaciers, and the towering peaks sent a pang of longing through Liam's heart.

But then the storm had hit—a tempest of such fury and violence that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the world. Liam remembered the howling winds and the cold. They had been trying to reach their tent to find some shelter from the maelstrom, when it happened.

A flash of light, brighter than a thousand suns. A crack of thunder that seemed to rend the very fabric of reality. And Ethan, his best friend, his brother in all but blood, engulfed in a blaze of searing, blinding energy. Liam had recoiled in horror, had felt the searing heat of the lightning on his own skin. And then...

Darkness. A yawning void that had swallowed him whole, that had sent him tumbling into the abyss of unconsciousness.

Liam's mind raced, trying to make sense of the fragmented pieces of his memory. If he had fallen, if he had ONLY injured himself, which is in fact impossible considering how high he fell onto those rocks in the Andes, then how had he come to be here, in this dungeon out of the medieval era? And what of Ethan? Had he survived the lightning strike? Or had he, too, been swallowed by the darkness, never to return? Or perhaps… does he has the same fate as him?

The questions swirled in Liam's mind, each one more desperate and unanswerable than the last. He strained against his chains, his naked body twisting in agonized confusion and despair. The metal bit into his wrists, and his ankles, drawing fresh blood to mingle with the grime and the sweat.

None of this made sense. The storm, the lightning, the dungeon... it was like a fever dream, a nightmare from which there was no waking. And yet, the pain was real. The cold, the hunger, the fear... they were all too terribly, viscerally real.

Liam's once handsome face was now a mask of pain and bewilderment, his blue eyes wide and haunted in the dim light of the dungeon. His blond hair, usually so carefully styled, was matted with filth, hanging in lank strands around his gaunt.

As Liam hung in his chains, his mind reeling with questions and despair, a sudden sound jolted him from his fractured thoughts. The heavy clang of metal on metal echoed through the dungeon, followed by the grating creak of rusty hinges. Footsteps, slow and measured, began to approach his cell, the sound growing louder with each passing second.

Liam's heart hammered in his chest, a new wave of fear washing over him. Who could be coming into this hellish place?

Suddenly, the heavy iron door of his cell creaked open, and a group of dark, hooded figures entered. Their robes were a deep, midnight black, adorned with intricate gold embroidery and strange, arcane symbols. Atop their heads sat bizarre, towering hats that seemed to defy gravity, their shapes twisted and asymmetrical.

As they approached Liam's prone form, the moonlight filtering through the narrow window illuminated their features, casting them in an otherworldly glow. Their faces were obscured by the shadows of their hoods, but Liam could feel the weight of their gazes upon him, cold and assessing.

The figures began to speak amongst themselves, their voices low and urgent. Liam strained to make out their words, his heart pounding in his chest as he listened.

"The ritual has failed once more," one of them hissed, frustration evident in their tone. "The Older God, Malagath remains unsatisfied, his hunger unappeased."

"We have searched far and wide for the perfect sacrifice," another chimed in, their voice a sibilant whisper. "A human with eyes of blue and hair of gold, their soul untainted by the corruptions of power and dominion."

"Twenty-seven times we have attempted the rite today," a third figure intoned, their voice deep and sonorous. "And still, we lack the thirteen other souls required to satiate our Lord's appetite."

Liam's blood ran cold as he listened to their words. Sacrifices? Rituals? The Older God Malagath? What madness had he stumbled into?

The cultists continued their discussion, seemingly oblivious to Liam's presence. "We have scoured the lands, taking those who fit the description," the first figure mused. "Leaders, commanders, those who hold sway over the hearts and minds of others. And yet, none have proven suitable."

"The human heart is a fickle, tainted thing," another cultist spat, their voice dripping with contempt. "Those who taste the fruit of power rarely remain pure, their souls stained by the filth of ambition and greed… We do not need those whose souls are such amalgamations."

Liam's mind raced as he processed their words. Leaders? Commanders? Is that why they had taken him? Did they believe him to be some figure of authority? Just what on Earth is this?

"And what of this one?" the third figure asked, gesturing towards Liam with a pale, spindly hand. "Found on the outskirts of the mountain range, dressed in strange garb. What do we know of him?"

"Little and less," the first cultist replied, his tone thoughtful. "But his appearance matches that which we seek. Blue of eye, gold of hair. And his bearing speaks to a certain... nobility of spirit."

Liam's heart hammered in his chest as he listened to their assessment. They knew nothing of him, and yet they were willing to condemn him to some unspeakable fate based on nothing more than his physical appearance and the tattered remnants of his hiking gear.

"The soul of the dominator is but one piece of the puzzle," the third intoned, his voice taking on a lecturing cadence. "To truly appease the Older God Malagath, we must also secure the other essential essences."

The first cultist nodded in agreement, their voice low and thoughtful. "Indeed. The soul of the Nurturer must follow, a heart filled with boundless compassion and selflessness. One who would give all for the sake of others, even unto their own destruction."

The third figure chimed in, their voice a rasping whisper. "And let us not forget The soul of the Visionary, the one who dreams of a brighter future and works tirelessly to bring it to fruition. A mind filled with hope and idealism, untainted by the cynicism and despair that so often plagues the human condition."

"The soul of the Guardian must also be obtained," the first figure continued, their tone almost reverent. "A spirit of unwavering loyalty and protection, one who would lay down their life for those they hold dear. A rare and precious thing in this world of self-interest and betrayal."

The second cultist continued, their voice now laced with frustration toward his companions. "We should stop conversing about such secrets… we cannot be sure, who might be hearing this outside the walls"

The cultist's words hung heavily in the air, echoing through the dimly lit chamber. They turned to their companion, eyes glinting with a mixture of determination and despair. "This task has consumed us for years," he said, voice low and burdened. "The preparation alone has taken us two years. Every day, week, and month, is spent searching, scheming, and hoping that the next souls we capture might be the ones we need. We cannot let all of our deeds vanish in nothing. We shall put him to the test," the second figure declared, his voice ringing with a note of finality.

As the cultists' words hung heavy in the air, but they nodded, their attention turned to Liam, their gazes piercing through the shadows of their hoods. With a single, fluid gesture from the lead figure, the chains that bound Liam's wrists and ankles fell away, clattering to the stone floor with a jarring clang. He stumbled forward, his legs trembling beneath him, weak from hours of confinement and the relentless grip of fear that had taken hold of his heart.

For a moment, Liam dared to hope that this was a chance at freedom, a momentary reprieve from the nightmarish reality he found himself in. But even as he took a tentative step forward, a sudden, crushing pressure enveloped his chest and back, as if an invisible force was slowly squeezing the life from his body. It started as a faint sensation, a tightness that made each breath a struggle, but with every passing second, the pressure intensified, growing more oppressive and unbearable.

Liam's eyes widened in panic as he fought against the unseen force, his lungs straining for air as his ribs creaked and groaned under the immense weight. It felt as though a giant, invisible hand was pressing down upon him, slowly crushing his torso in its merciless grip. His heart raced, pounding against his chest like a caged bird desperate for escape, as a cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

Strangely, his legs remained unaffected by the crushing sensation, standing firm and steady beneath him even as the rest of his body was wracked with pain. It was as if the mysterious force had targeted his upper body specifically, leaving his lower half untouched in a cruel mockery of freedom.

The cultists watched Liam's struggle with a detached curiosity, their heads tilted slightly to the side as he observed his every move. The lead figure stepped forward, their voice low and musing, tinged with a hint of dark amusement. "It seems our guest is struggling against the gifts of Malagath," he remarked, his tone almost conversational, as if discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. "The Older God's power can be overwhelming for those unaccustomed to its touch."

Another cultist chuckled softly, the sound sending chills down Liam's spine. "Indeed, it is a mere taste of the blessings that await those who prove themselves worthy in His eyes. A minor bind, nothing more than a gentle caress compared to the true embrace of Malagath."

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Liam's mind reeled as he fought to comprehend their words, even as his body fought against the relentless pressure that threatened to crush him. The idea that this excruciating pain, this feeling of being slowly squeezed to death, was considered nothing more than a "minor bind" filled him with a sense of dread and horror that defied description.

"This can’t be real," Liam thought, his mind grappling with the surreal nature of his predicament. "No place on Earth could harbor such monstrous cruelty, such unimaginable power." His muscles screamed in agony as he attempted to move, every inch of his body protesting against the strain. The power that bound him felt like it were infused with a malevolent life of its own, tightening with every breath he took, every slight movement he made.

As his vision blurred and dark spots danced before his eyes, Liam tried to shake off the fog of fatigue that clouded his mind. His thoughts were sluggish, like molasses moving uphill, but he knew he had to stay conscious, had to keep fighting. "Otherworldly powers," he mused internally, the absurdity of the thought nearly making him laugh despite his dire situation. "There’s no way this place is from my world. No way these people, these... things, could exist in the reality I know."

His heart pounded in his chest, each beat sending a fresh wave of pain through his body. Sweat trickled down his face, stinging his eyes and mingling with the blood from the cuts and abrasions that marred his skin. "Focus, damn it," he silently berated himself. "You have to think. You have to find a way out of this nightmare."

The silence of the dungeon was suddenly shattered by a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves. Liam's head snapped up, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and desperate hope as the noise grew louder, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of an explosion somewhere in the distance. Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling, and the ground beneath his feet trembled, sending ripples of pain through his battered body.

Two of the cultists exchanged nervous glances, their composure cracking under the weight of this unexpected intrusion. "What was that?" one of them hissed, their voice tight with barely concealed panic. "Could it be the knights of Lord Igrae? Have they discovered our hidden sanctuary?"

The other cultist shook his head, a hint of uncertainty creeping into their tone. "Impossible. We have taken every precaution to ensure our secrecy. No one outside our order should know of this place."

But even as the words left their lips, another explosion rocked the dungeon, this time closer and more powerful than before. The walls shuddered, and cracks began to spiderweb across the stone, dust billowing in the air like a choking fog.

From somewhere in the corridors beyond the chamber, a shrill scream pierced the air, filled with terror and agony. "AH! AHHH! W-WITCHES!" The voice was male, raw with pain and hysteria, and it sent a chill down Liam's spine. He had no idea what the man was talking about, no frame of reference for the horrors that seemed to be unfolding just out of sight, but the sheer animal desperation in that scream spoke volumes.

The two nervous cultists exchanged another look, a silent communication passing between them. With a curt nod, they turned and hurried towards the chamber entrance, their robes billowing behind them as they disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

Liam's mind raced, trying to make sense of the chaos that had erupted around him. The names and concepts were foreign to him, pieces of a puzzle that belonged to a world he didn't understand. All he knew was that something had disrupted the cultists' plans, something that had thrown their carefully orchestrated ritual into disarray.

The remaining cultist, the one who seemed to be the leader of the group, stood stock-still, their head cocked slightly to the side as if listening to a voice only they could hear. Liam watched them warily, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to anticipate his next move.

After a long, tense moment, the cultist straightened, his posture rigid with resolve. They turned to face Liam, and even through the shadows of his hood, he could see the cold, merciless glint in his eyes.

"It seems our time has run short," he said, his voice flat and emotionless. "The higher-ups have spoken. The witches must be eliminated, and there is no time for the proper rituals… not putting your pack in your cage…" He took a step toward Liam, his hand reaching beneath his robe to draw a long, wicked snake-looking dagger from his belt. "I'm afraid, my dear guest, that your journey ends here."

Liam's heart seized with terror as he realized the cultist's intent. He was going to kill him, right here and now, without even the twisted mercy of his dark ritual. He struggled against his bonds, his muscles screaming in protest as he fought to break free, to find some way to defend himself.

But it was useless. The crushing force that held him in its grip was too strong, too unyielding. He could only watch in helpless horror as the cultist advanced, the dagger glinting in the eerie light of the chamber.

"Please," Liam heard himself beg, his voice hoarse and desperate. "Please, don't do this. I don't understand any of this. I'm sure I’m not from this world, I don't know anything about this bullshit! I just want to go home."

The cultist paused, their head tilting slightly as if considering Liam's words. For a moment, a flicker of doubt crossed their shadowed features, a hint of hesitation in their movements.

But then another explosion rocked the dungeon, closer and more violent than ever before. Dust and rubble rained down from the ceiling, and the ground heaved beneath their feet like the deck of a storm-tossed ship.

The cultist's resolve hardened, his grip tightening on the dagger as they closed the distance between themselves and Liam. "It seems this one slipped into the grip of insanity," he said, their voice cold and unyielding. "But the will of Malagath must be done..."

Liam's heart raced, his mind desperately grasping for any shred of hope, any chance of escape from this nightmarish fate. But as the cultist raised the dagger, their eyes glinting with cold determination, Liam knew that his pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

Suddenly, a glint of light caught the cultist's eye, a brief flash of movement in the shadows beyond the chamber. With lightning-fast reflexes, the cultist jerked his head to the side, just as a dagger whizzed past his ear, the blade barely grazing his hood before clattering against the stone wall behind him.

Liam's eyes widened in shock and sudden hope, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, his impending doom had been interrupted. The cultist had come terrifyingly close to being struck down, a chance he hadn't dared to believe possible. His heart pounded wildly, not from fear but from a flicker of hope that he might live to see another day.

The cultist, however, seemed more intrigued than frightened by this unexpected attack. He straightened, his posture becoming tense and alert, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. He scanned the darkness with narrowed eyes, the dagger still clutched tightly in his hand. His gaze was sharp and unyielding, seeking any sign of their unseen assailant.

"Well, well," the cultist called out, his voice echoing in the cavernous chamber with a sinister resonance as he looked at Liam for a moment. "It seems a witch is in our midst," he turned around swiftly. "How clever of you to slip past my brothers, to find your way to this sacred place."

There was a hint of grudging admiration in the cultist's tone, a reluctant respect for the skill and cunning of his adversary. But woven through it was also a note of condescension, a smug certainty in the superiority of his own power.

"I must congratulate you on your surprise attack," the cultist continued, his grip on the dagger never wavering. "It takes a great deal of skill and prowess to conceal oneself so completely. But I'm afraid your efforts are in vain."

The cultist began to move, circling the chamber with slow, deliberate steps, his eyes constantly searching the shadows for any hint of movement. Liam watched, his heart pounding in his chest, as the cultist continued his monologue, his voice dripping with a chilling confidence.

"You see, unlike my brothers, I have not neglected my physical training in pursuit of enlightenment. I have honed my body as well as my soul, and the gifts bestowed upon me by the great Malagath are not so easily overcome."

As if to punctuate his words, another dagger suddenly flew from the opposite side of the chamber, its blade glinting in the eerie light. But the cultist was ready. "Voidfire Ignis!" he intoned, his hand moving with blinding speed as he summoned a blast of void fire from his fingertips.

As the dark incantation left his lips, the intricate sigil etched into the cultist's right cheek flared to life, bathing his face in an unsettling purple glow. The arcane symbol, pulsed with eldritch energy. At its center, a stylized eye seemed to stare out from his flesh, its pupil an inky black void that threatened to swallow all light.

Tendrils of shadow coalesced around the sigil, writhing and dancing like serpents as the void fire surged forth from the cultist's outstretched hand. The dark flames engulfed the dagger in midair, the metal twisting and melting like wax under the intense heat.

The ruined blade clattered to the ground, a smoking heap of twisted metal, and the cultist let out a low, mocking laugh. "Now, do you understand?" he said, his voice filled with cruel amusement. "The power of the Older Gods cannot be surpassed by your paltry witchcraft. You are nothing more than an insect, buzzing around the edges of our grand design."

Liam's heart raced as he watched the cultist's display of power, the casual ease with which he had dispatched those attacks. He knew he was witnessing a battle between forces far beyond his understanding, a clash of magic and faith that he could barely comprehend. Yet, amidst his fear, there was a growing hope. The witch was out there, fighting for him… or not, he didn’t know, but maybe, just maybe, he might survive this nightmare.

The witch burst forth from the shadows, her form coalescing from the very essence of darkness. Her movements were fluid and precise, each step a calculated strike, her body a weapon honed to deadly perfection. The black leather that clung to her lithe frame seemed to absorb the faint light of the chamber, making her appear as a living silhouette, a wraith born of the void as his green eyes glistened in the cold moonlight.

As she closed in on the cultist, his magic wavered, the void fire sputtering and dying in his hands like a candle in a tempest. He whirled to face her, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and trepidation, the realization of his own vulnerability dawning upon him. Yet, even in that moment of uncertainty, there was a flicker of perverse glee in his gaze, a twisted delight at the prospect of a worthy adversary.

"You think mere tricks of shadow can save you?" the cultist taunted, his grip tightening on the dagger until his knuckles whitened. "You know nothing of the true power of Malagath, THE OBLITERATOR."

The witch's lips curved into a smile, a chilling, mirthless thing that held no warmth. "Your arrogance blinds you," she whispered, her voice a silken purr laced with venom. "This is no simple concealment magic, Dark Priest."

As the last word left her lips, the witch's form dissolved, her body fragmenting into a swirling cloud of ash and shadow. The cultist's blade sliced through the space she had occupied a heartbeat before, finding only empty air. For a fraction of a second, confusion clouded his features, his bravado faltering in the face of the unexpected.

But the witch was far from finished. The ashes swirled and danced, reforming behind the cultist in a heartbeat. Before he could even begin to react, she struck, her dagger a blur of motion as it arced toward his flesh.

The blade found its mark, plunging deep into the cultist’s shoulder. A scream of agony and rage erupted from his lips, filling the chamber with a sound so raw that it reverberated off the stone walls. He staggered forward, clutching at the hilt embedded in his flesh, his eyes wide with shock. The dark magic he had been wielding sputtered out like a dying ember, its malevolent energy dissipating into the air. The crushing force that had pinned Liam down vanished abruptly, leaving him gasping for breath, his limbs trembling with the sudden release from torment.

But there was no time to revel in his newfound freedom. Adrenaline surged through Liam’s veins, driving out the dizziness and disorientation that threatened to overwhelm him. His mind raced, eyes scanning the chamber frantically for anything that could serve as a weapon. Then he saw it—a heavy, ornate torch holder resting on the wall, its base carved into the grotesque visage of a demonic entity, its leering eyes seeming to taunt him.

The two combatants were evenly matched, each one moving with a lethal grace that spoke of years of training and experience. Crimson blood gushed from the cultist's wound, dyeing his robes an even deeper shade of black. The witch’s blade flickered like lightning, her movements swift and fluid, every strike aimed with precision at the cultist’s vital points. But the cultist was no less formidable; despite the wound in his shoulder, he parried each of her attacks with a grim determination, his own dagger flashing through the air in brutal counterstrikes followed by his dark fire that flew out from his other hand which all missed his target. His frenzied magic attacks made it impossible to get closer to him.

Liam lunged for the torch holder, his fingers closing around the cold metal as he ripped it off from the wall. Seizing his chance, he circled behind the cultist, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his palms slick with sweat on the candlestick's surface. He knew he would only have one opportunity, one fleeting instant to strike a decisive blow. Raising the torch holder high above his head, Liam gathered every ounce of strength left in his battered body.

With a roar that was equal parts terror and determination, Liam brought the candlestick crashing down on the side of the cultist’s skull with every fiber of his being.

The sound was sickening, a wet, pulpy crunch that echoed through the chamber like a gunshot. The cultist went rigid, his dagger slipping from suddenly limp fingers to clatter on the stone floor. He swayed on his feet for a moment, his eyes glazing over with the veil of death.

"How the fuck is this bastard still alive?" Liam's mind reeled in disbelief. "I fucking caved his skull in! What kind of unholy shit keeps this monster going?" A cold dread crept up his spine as he realized the depths of the dark powers at work.

But even as he teetered on the brink, the cultist's lips moved, his voice a gurgling rasp as he uttered one final incantation. A burst of void fire erupted from his hands, wild and unfocused, a last desperate attempt to strike down his foes.

The witch reacted with preternatural speed, her form dissolving into shadow once more as the flames rushed towards her. But Liam had no such protection, he quickly leaped away, hitting his body against the stone floor, avoiding the magic barely.

As Liam struggled to rise, his vision swimming with pain, he saw the cultist crumple to the ground, his skull a ruined mess of shattered bone and pulped brain matter. The void fire flickered and died, plunging the chamber back into eerie darkness.

A wave of relief washed over Liam, his tense muscles loosening just a fraction. He exhaled slowly, the breath he'd been holding escaping in a shaky rush. "Fuck... I thought this would never end," he muttered, his voice rough with exertion and lingering fear.

The witch reemerged from the shadows, her steps as whisper-soft as falling leaves. She paused over the cultist's corpse, stooping to retrieve his blood-soaked robes. With a casual flick of her wrist, she tossed the garments to Liam.

Liam caught the robes reflexively, the fabric rasping against his bare skin, a stark reminder of his nakedness as he got embarrassed a little by his own vulnerability.

Liam hurriedly pulled on the blood-soaked robes, the coarse fabric scraping against his skin like sandpaper. Each movement was stiff and awkward, his fingers trembling as they fumbled with the unfamiliar fastenings. The stench of blood and death clung to him, making his stomach churn, but there was no time to dwell on the sickening reality of his situation.

When he looked up, the witch was watching him, her eyes glinting beneath the cowl of her hood. There was something inscrutable in her gaze, a depth of mystery that Liam couldn't begin to fathom. He opened his mouth, a thousand questions burning on his tongue, gratitude and confusion warring in his heart, but before even a sound could escape his lips, she was already gone—vanishing into the darkness as swiftly as she had appeared.

《ᘿᘕᘮᘔᘼ》