In the half-light of the ruined chapel, a whisper of footsteps broke the quiet. Godric — the ancient one, the last echo of Rome’s shadow — lifted his gaze from the dust that had gathered on his hands. The air trembled faintly; another heartbeat entered the silence, uninvited, unafraid.

He turned before the mortal could reach the altar, his voice cutting through the stillness like the memory of a blade. “You should not be here.”

The words carried more than warning — they carried sorrow. Dust swirled where his voice met the air, drifting like ash through moonlight. The intruder froze at the threshold, haloed by the soft blue of a dying stained-glass window. Beyond them, thunder rolled far off — the world remembering storms long past.

Godric rose from where he had been kneeling, centuries heavy in his posture, the old tattoo on his arm catching the dim light. His eyes, older than empires, studied the figure before him with a strange gentleness — as though he feared for them more than himself.

“This place is not meant for the living,” he murmured, quieter now, as if speaking to memory itself. “And yet… you found your way here.”

The candle nearest the altar guttered. The flame leaned toward the newcomer, its trembling light painting both mortal and monster in the same frail glow — two souls caught between what should be, and what remains.