The air in the room had grown stale, thick with smoke and sweat and something far more unnatural. Liam's arms were burning, his chest heaving with every breath. Every deflected arrow, every narrow dodge, chipped away at his strength. Beside him, Marcus looked no better. His axe hung at his side, shoulders sagging, blood from the graze on his thigh soaking into his trousers.
But the spirit? It wasn't tired.
It hovered lazily in Sophia's body, as if this were some twisted game. Her eyes—those black, endless pits—bore into them like holes burned into the world itself. Her face wore that ever-present smirk, lips curled in that same maddening grin that had followed them around the chamber since she first appeared.
She drifted slowly now, in a smooth, spectral arc, circling them as though admiring prey that had run a good race but was finally slowing.
And then—she stopped.
Right in front of Liam.
Just a few paces away.
