As we stepped into Ghost Valley, the sun had completely vanished, leaving only an oppressive darkness that engulfed us. Thick dark clouds overcast the sky, harbinger of dooms as we say.
A chilling wind swept through the valley, carrying with it a foul scent that seeped into our nostrils—something like rotting flesh. It was not the typical smell of damp earth or rotting leaves; no, this was worse. It was the smell of death. I forced myself to push forward. The others were moving silently, their faces attentive, their gazes scanning the surroundings with wary eyes in case of an ambush.
I could not pinpoint what it was exactly, but the closer I got, the more it gnawed at me. It wasn't the kind of scent you could just ignore, even if you tried. I shrugged it off, willing myself to ignore the prickle of unease crawling up my spine. There was nothing to be done about it anyway. We had to keep moving forward.
