"Is this a fight or a conversation?" Kaelion asked as the ramp descended.
Alaric didn't answer.
He stepped down into the fog, boots touching cracked stone that used to be a paved road. The air was thick, but not wet. It pressed against skin like memory—not heavy, but personal.
Seraphine followed just behind him, hand on the hilt of her blade. "Whatever this is, it doesn't feel like magic."
"That's because it isn't," Alaric said. "This is pure mental bleed."
Kaelion muttered behind them, "We're walking inside someone's memory, aren't we?"
"No," Alaric said. "We're walking inside someone's regret."
---
The buildings of Ashvale stood crooked and quiet. No sounds. No birds. Just empty houses with doors open like mouths, and windows staring with blank glass eyes.
Seraphine paused beside one.
"Look inside."
Kaelion stepped up. "What are we looking for?"
"There's food on the table," she said. "Plates. Still warm."
Alaric peered in.
She was right.
