The air around Blackthorn was thick with malice, a palpable weight pressing down on George and his group as they stared up at the cathedral, its towering spire looming over the cursed town. The darkness that clung to this place seemed to crawl into their bones, a festering rot that gnawed at their resolve. Father Ezekiel's twisted voice echoed through the streets, carried on the wind like a dark hymn, and the power of his presence was undeniable.
George took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves as they moved closer to the heart of the town. The air felt heavy, oppressive, like it was filled with centuries of suffering and torment. Raven walked beside him, her hand close to the hilt of her sword, eyes darting nervously between the shadows that danced at the edge of her vision.
