Ragnar's boots scraped against the damp stone floor of the dungeon, the air thick with the musty scent of earth and decay.
Shadows danced along the walls, cast by the flickering torchlight from deeper chambers.
He paused, his sharp eyes narrowing at a figure emerging from the gloom ahead.
For a heartbeat, he thought it was Aria—her silhouette familiar in the dimness—but as a stray beam of light from a crack in the ceiling pierced the darkness, it illuminated pale skin and wild, silver hair.
Elaris.
She stumbled toward him, her chest heaving with rapid breaths, her eyes darting left and right as if expecting phantoms to lunge from every crevice.
Ragnar's brow furrowed, a knot of worry twisting in his gut.
"Elaris? What's wrong?" He stepped closer, his voice low but urgent, hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword.
She halted, her gaze locking onto his, wide and unfocused.
"I... I feel weird. For some reason, especially when I'm touching you."
