Ashen and Pyro stood before the grand, decaying gates of the Darkhold Fortress Castle. Its ominous gates towering above them like a maw ready to devour. The air was thick with necrotic energy, the ground littered with bones and broken weapons from countless failed invasions. As they crossed the threshold into the fortress, the air grew colder, the oppressive weight of dark magic pressing down on them like an invisible hand.
The air was thick with a chilling mist that seemed to cling to their skin, drawing from the very atmosphere a sense of malevolence and foreboding. The fortress itself loomed like a forgotten relic of an ancient age, its crumbling stone walls pulsating with a strange, necrotic energy. Faint whispers carried through the wind, filling the silence with dread.
"This place…" Pyro muttered, gripping his Zweihander tightly, his eyes darting across the darkened path before them. "It feels like death itself is waiting for us."
