The wind howled through the open gaps in the tower, carrying with it the stench of decay. Kael stood at the precipice of the old stone structure, his eyes scanning the horizon, his senses alive with the eerie pull of the rift. The Shadowborn were closing in, their presence a constant pressure against his mind, as if they were whispering dark promises of despair and destruction.
Morgana's wound had been bandaged as best as possible, but she moved with a grimace, every step betraying the pain that pulsed through her arm. Elarion's face was a mask of concentration as he began to trace glowing sigils in the air, his fingers moving like they were conducting some forgotten symphony of magic.
"We can't stay here long," Kael said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The tower's a dead end. We need to get to the heart of the rift. The rift itself is shifting, pulling the world apart at the seams. We have to stop it."
