The towering silhouette of the Hemathean castle loomed ahead, its majesty both intimidating and awe-inspiring. Even from a distance, the structure spoke of timeless elegance and power. The castle wasn't built of ordinary stone; its walls shimmered like liquid silver under the dappled sunlight, a gleaming fortress that seemed to breathe with the life of the forest around it. Turrets spiralled upward like ancient trees reaching for the heavens, their peaks crowned with banners that fluttered softly in the breeze, adorned with the sigil of Hematheas—a blooming Lily of the Valley encircled by a crescent moon.
As they drew closer, Luke's attention shifted to the gates, an imposing barrier that stood at least three times his height. Intricate carvings adorned the massive doors, depicting scenes of elven history—battles fought, alliances forged, and a serene monarch presiding over it all. Two rows of figures flanked the gates, their presence commanding and unyielding.
