The night was unnaturally still as Elara and the Guardians moved toward the tear. Every step felt heavier, the air thick with anticipation and the remnants of the dark magic that the Weavers had summoned. The closer they got to the tear, the more the world around them seemed to shift—shadows lengthened unnaturally, and the ground itself seemed to pulse with a faint, ominous energy.
Elara led the group, her sword gleaming in the moonlight. Behind her, Morgana and Seraphina followed closely, both prepared for the upcoming confrontation. Henry and Lyra flanked them, weapons at the ready, their eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of the enemy. Doran, his massive frame armored for battle, took up the rear, ensuring no one could ambush them from behind.
