{"In the folds of the mountain's mist, magic breathes, and time forgets its name."}
The path to Ragar Mountain was an ancient one, untouched by time, known only to the oldest bloodlines of the Bay Shifter Pack. Freyr walked beside me, his fingers brushing mine as the wind howled softly through the narrow gorge. The air here was thinner, laced with the primal scent of earth and stone wild and reverent.
We did not speak much as we climbed. Words felt too small, too mortal for what waited ahead.
The peak of Ragar loomed like a sleeping giant, crowned in mist. And there, carved into the belly of the mountain itself, stood the obsidian archway, jagged, immense, breathing power. As we approached, the runes lining the stone flickered with a soft silvery-blue light, recognizing my bloodline. Then the air shifted.
