DEYA: CHAPTER 60

The streets of Orgaia were dark, cold, and empty as Deya walked through them. It was a labyrinth of cold, dark corridors, steeped in an ancient, foreboding aura.

The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and decay, the remnants of a time long forgotten clinging to the shadows like ghosts.

Narrow cobbled paths wove through towering, crumbling edifices of blackened stone, their jagged spires piercing the night sky.

The buildings leaned over the streets as though conspiring, their cracked facades etched with the scars of centuries, and ivy crept like veins across their surfaces.

Dim, flickering lanterns cast pools of yellowed light, barely strong enough to pierce the encroaching darkness.

Their weak glow illuminated the uneven cobblestones, slick with moisture, and the occasional glint of broken glass or discarded metal.

Every step echoed in the oppressive silence, reverberating as though the city itself was alive, watching, waiting.