Vergil and Freya walked side by side along an ancient stone path that wound between mountains covered in dark pine trees. The place belonged neither to the Demon World nor properly to the Norse realms. It was a territory of passage, a region forgotten by modern civilizations, where ancient pacts still allowed certain routes to exist between different dimensions.
The air was cold.
A clean cold, unlike the Abyss, where even the wind seemed burdened with death.
There was only the sound of the forest, the rustling of leaves, and the distant noise of water running between the rocks.
Vergil walked with his hands in the pockets of his coat, discreetly observing the surroundings. Ever since they had left Salem, Freya had insisted on guiding him along that terrestrial path instead of simply opening some kind of portal.
He had not yet asked why.
He trusted that she had a reason.
Freya walked a few steps ahead.
