The hours ticked by, the tension in the air growing heavier with each passing minute.
Midnight was approaching.
Jolthar's sharp eyes caught every movement, every flicker of shadow. Maelruth shifted uneasily beside him, its nostrils flaring as though sensing something amiss.
Jolthar's intuition, prickled with an anticipation that crawled beneath his skin like invisible insects.
Then, just as the clock struck midnight, a faint sound reached his ears—a low, bone-chilling screech that seemed to rise from the depths of the earth.
Jolthar stiffened, his hand moving instinctively to his sword. Maelruth let out a low growl, its tail lashing the ground in agitation.
From his elevated vantage point, Jolthar's keen eyes caught a faint distortion to the west of the valley, just beyond the last row of houses.
At first, it was subtle—a thick, shadowy haze swirling unnaturally against the moonlit backdrop.
