Time had eroded the Eastern Courtyard into a forgotten scar. What had once been a place of study and serenity now lay beneath crumbling stone and choking vines. The garden was no longer a sanctuary. It was a mausoleum.
Kaidën stepped over a gnarled root poking from the cobblestone like a finger from the earth. The air was humid, but still. Too still.
Bran's voice broke the silence. "Weird. It's so quiet here."
Leonhart, walking slightly ahead, didn't look back. "It's the kind of silence where sound dies. Listen closely — not even birds."
Bran's furry ears twitched. "Not even bugs."
Kaidën scanned the broken statues, cracked arches, and mangled stone benches. Everything bore the same story — magic had once thrived here. But now only decay remained. His gaze sharpened, noting subtle marks others missed: burn trails, faint mana scarring, and sigil remnants nearly invisible to the untrained eye.
