Dawn broke clean, the sky a pristine sheet of pale blue as if the world had been freshly washed. The three men left their camp while dew still clung to the grass like breath held in silence. No words passed between them—their steps were steady, and far ahead, the silver spire remained unmoved, a beacon etched into destiny.
The path sloped gently upward, leading them through moss-flecked stones and dried trees that looked like skeletal sentinels. As they drew nearer, Karl could feel something shift in the air—it was heavier here, not in a stifling way, but dense and slow, as though time itself moved differently.
"I don't know if it's just me," Molvar muttered, "but the air's... weird."
"It's not just you," Karl replied. "It's like... something is wrapped around this land."
Sir Cedric said nothing, but his grip on his sword tightened, his eyes locked on the tower now emerging clearly through the thinning mist.
