The first light of dawn crept across the sky as the Guardians stood at the entrance to the Weavers' stronghold. The storm from the previous night had passed, but its lingering mist still clung to the ground, swirling around their feet as they prepared to breach the ancient fortress. The dark towers of the stronghold loomed ahead, casting long, ominous shadows across the valley.
Elara, at the forefront of the group, studied the imposing structure. The dark spires seemed to reach for the sky, and the runes carved into the stone walls pulsed faintly, a reminder of the dark magic woven throughout the fortress. The sense of foreboding was palpable, and even the air around them seemed thick with tension.
"Are we sure about this approach?" Henry asked, his crossbow slung across his back. He scanned the fortress's towering walls, looking for any sign of movement. "It feels like we're walking into a trap."
