The air of Hyartthi, even filtered through the shimmering, iridescent veil of the shadow realm, pressed in on Victoria like a tangible thing. Dust motes danced in the perpetual twilight, illuminated by arcane lights that flickered and pulsed like living embers. The land pulsed with a feverish energy, a chaotic symphony of human voices, the rustling of unseen wings, and the low, guttural growls of creatures that defied earthly categorization. It was a land of whispers and shadows, where the veil between the mortal and the magical seemed impossibly thin.
Cyra, Victoria's handmaid, her usual serene demeanor slightly frayed, gripped the reins of their steed. "A truly wondrous chaos, my lady," she murmured, her voice barely above the roar of the throngs.