The interior of the spire was an entirely different place from the ruined city outside. A stone-paved corridor stretched deeper inward. Not a speck of dust. No accumulated grime, no crumbled stone fragments—nothing. The preservation was incomparably better than the ruins scattered beneath the purple sky. Light sources set at regular intervals along the walls—ancient illumination devices powered by magic—filled the entire corridor with a white light that was neither warm nor cold. Someone, or something, was maintaining this place. Aira proceeded down the corridor without releasing her grip on her sword's hilt. Her green eyes swept quickly left and right. Her reddish-brown long hair appeared a muted color in the light. Raid walked slightly behind her. The pale blue scar on his left arm—a mark of damage from magical fusion—held a faint warmth. The deeper they ventured into the heart of the ruined city, the stronger the response of the magical circuits within his body became. "Given wh